


The Company of The Rose

by LowerEastSide



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Apologies, Background Relationships, Coming In Pants, Denial, Developing Friendships, Dinner, Dubious Consent, Emotional Baggage, Family Issues, Forgiveness, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, H/D Erised 2019, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Mild Praise Kink, Oral Sex, POV Draco Malfoy, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Riding, Sex Pollen, Sexual Tension, Switching, magical houses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21664360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LowerEastSide/pseuds/LowerEastSide
Summary: Six years after the war, Draco Malfoy has been restoring magical estates, while sidestepping his mother’s plots to marry him off and resolutely avoiding his issues. An advert in theProphettakes him to a remote island, where a mysterious stranger has purchased an abandoned retreat. But the house has a few secrets of its own, and Draco will be forced to deal with not only his past, but the possibilities of the future.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 110
Kudos: 996
Collections: H/D Erised 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PalenDrome (nerdherderette)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdherderette/gifts).



> Palendrome! I loved your prompt about Draco working as a caretaker for a remote estate, and it provided me great inspiration. I hope this fic brings you joy! My deepest gratitude to my beta readers S and G for all their help. And of course to the mods, who are true superstars!!!
> 
> I picked the location of Inishtrahull off Google Maps, mostly for how remote it was. I just needed an excuse to get Harry and Draco alone! Any Irish and French family names I needed also came from Google.
> 
> The title comes from the Gulistan by the Persian poet Saadi:  
> “The profit of the sea would be good if there were no fear of waves; the company of the rose would be sweet if there were no pain from thorns.”

Brunch, according to Pansy, was the most important meal of the day. Draco disagreed, preferring a late supper, while Blaise was neutral—put a mimosa in front of the man, and he was happy enough. But Pansy was the one who'd been brave enough to venture into Muggle London and find establishments that were still willing to serve them, so Pansy made the schedule.

The food had already arrived when Draco, late as usual, flung himself into his chair with a sigh, tossing a paper towards his companions. The employment section of the _Prophet_ fluttered to rest over the croissants, and Pansy plucked it from the table with an irritated huff.

“You could try to show up on time one day, you know.”

“Or we could meet at a civilised hour that doesn't interfere with my beauty sleep.”

“It's 11 am!!”

Draco looked to Blaise but was met with a shrug. “You’re no help,” Draco grumbled.

“Don’t harass him before the coffee’s kicked in,” Pansy admonished. “You know Blaise can’t deal with your temper this early.”

“Ah ha! So you _admit_ that it’s early.”

Pansy rolled her eyes skyward before pouring another mimosa. “I admit nothing. Now tell me why this vile rag is on the table.”

Reaching for the butter, Draco gestured casually with a knife. “Take a look.”

“What exactly am I looking at?” Pansy asked, the _Prophet_ held delicately between her thumb and forefinger as if it would bite her. Rita Skeeter had been scathing in her assessment of Pansy after the war.

“The one I circled,” Draco directed her. Pansy peered closer at the paper, her mouth moving as she read the advert in question, eyes growing wider as she reached the end with a delighted whoop.

“A _caretaker?_ You’re applying to be someone’s caretaker?”

“Not someone, _somewhere._ A magical estate in need of looking after.”

“You’re going to be Filch!” Pansy cackled. “We’ll have to get you an awful cat.”

Draco stabbed the butter harder than necessary. “A caretaker is hardly a janitorial position. And a country estate of that size? There will be loads to keep me busy. If I don’t find employment, Mother will start finding other things for me to do.” He shuddered, well aware of his mother’s designs on re-entering society.

Pansy reached for the fruit bowl, dropped several raspberries into her mimosa, and sighed. “Darling, are you sure you don’t want me to ask around for you? Daddy is sure to know of some bookkeeping positions.”

“I’d rather not hang around London more than I have to. France has been lovely, this will be an opportunity to be away some more. I have the experience, from looking after the Manor and other references, too, since I helped Mme Debevoise clear out her château when we stayed there. And I refurbished her cousin’s portrait gallery.” Draco accepted the bowl as Pansy passed it to him, and glanced over the table. “Why are there no waffles?”

“You weren’t here to order. Blaise wanted croissants and yoghurt.” One look at Blaise told Draco that he’d asked for no such thing.

Draco turned to signal the waiter as Pansy scanned the advert again. “It doesn’t say who owns this estate. Have you written in yet?”

The waiter arrived with a wary expression; Pansy must have been in fine form when she arrived. “I’d like one order of waffles, please.” Draco noticed Blaise’s pleading expression, and added, “Make that two.” Pansy opened her mouth to protest, and Draco cut her off. “I sent the application this morning.”

She turned back to Draco as the waiter escaped. “This morning? It's not like you to be so trusting.”

“I'm not _trusting._ ” Draco let the word fall from his mouth as if he'd eaten a bad strawberry. “I'm simply not letting an opportunity pass me by. I'll do my due diligence once I arrive.”

“But—”

Blaise set his empty coffee cup down with a clatter. “Draco can take care of himself. You know the second he settles back in at home, Narcissa is going to parade him around to every crusty old pure-blood grandmother trying to make a match, with a list of all the remaining Malfoy vaults, properties, and peacocks, and sell him off to the most well-connected, respectable prospect. He’s going to be miserable, we’re going to be miserable from listening to him whinge, and whoever his bride is will be miserable as well. Didn’t you say he was the most awful kisser, back in fifth year?” Both Draco and Pansy turned varying shades of red, but Blaise continued on. “That’s what happens when you try to make arranged marriages work. Bad sex and misery all around. Not to mention we’ve seen what trouble Draco gets up to when he’s bored. So this is all for the best! Draco gets to stay occupied, I get to stay sane, and you don’t have to worry about finding the right dress for a fancy wedding that no one wants.” He drew a long breath, and finished with, “And just because you’re on a diet doesn’t mean the rest of us have to suffer. By the way, croissants have just as much fat as waffles.”

Pansy stared at Blaise wordlessly, before slowly pushing her plate of croissants away. “Well, then,” Draco said, bemused. “Guess the coffee kicked in.”

He left his two best friends to bicker about the addition of whipped cream, and retrieved the paper from where Pansy had laid it, reading over the advert one more time.

_Wanted: Caretaker_

_Seeking one witch or wizard to manage the reopening of a country estate. House has sat vacant for some years and includes 10 acres of garden. Familiarity with wards is a must; experience with historical artefacts is preferred._

_Discretion required._

_—————_

Ireland had its charms. It was, as promised, rather green in the summer, and Draco did appreciate a nice bit of nature. More importantly, not a single person gave him a disgusted look or muttered under their breath as he walked down the main street of Letterkenny, returning from a pub where he'd had a quick nip to gather his courage before the interview.

Of course, the fact there was only a single Owl Post Office to betray the existence of the wizarding world could have something to do with that.

Thankfully, Pansy had neglected to notice the advert was under the Irish header of the employment section. He would have never lived it down. The English pure-blood elite still acted superior to the Irish communities, especially “the separatists,” as some people (his father included) quietly called them. Draco wasn’t exactly sure of the status of Ireland in the Muggle government—he was happy to go to Muggle restaurants and upscale shopping boutiques, but couldn’t be bothered to remember if they still had a Queen or what colonies they possessed.

He was definitely happy to drink their whiskey.

Out back of the Owl Post Office, there was a small park with a bench. The Concealment Charms extended all around the trees, to hide the owls when they were on break, and it was here that Draco's prospective employer had asked to meet. It was somewhat unusual—Draco would have expected to meet at the house itself—but not overly so. Perhaps the owner just didn't want to give up his privacy until he was sure about hiring Draco.

Unusual or not, this job was important to Draco. Not in the financial sense, as over a thousand years of Malfoy wealth (and that was just the British vaults) were hardly dented by war reparations and legal bills. But working kept him busy, and more importantly it kept him far from his mother’s machinations. Also, and he’d never breathe a word of this to Pansy, it made him _different,_ almost special. No Malfoy had ever bothered to pursue a common career. There were politicians and investors and philanthropists (strike that, Draco was pretty sure no Malfoy had truly been a philanthropist) but no one _worked._ And if holding down a job like the common rabble went some way towards a bit of… well, maybe not forgiveness, but respect? Draco could handle that. And if he was good at what he did, that was simply icing on the Cauldron Cake.

Several owls fluttered in the trees, their natural penchant for sleeping in the daytime broken by years of training. Draco leaned back on the bench and waited. If nothing else, this trip was a nice diversion. Being thrown back into the bustle of London, expected to make social engagements, was emotionally taxing. Draco often caught himself talking to no one in particular in his own head, focusing on words and phrases to centre himself. Nice words, unique words. Words like _Letterkenny._ Perhaps it was mental, but who did it hurt? Draco repeated the name of the town slowly under his breath, syllable by syllable, calming his nerves.

Eventually, a man around his age, with dark hair and a badly trimmed moustache, entered the park. He spotted Draco quickly— there was no one else except for the owls—and stiffened. _Could this be him?_ Draco wondered, and sat up straighter. Several expressions quickly flickered over the man’s face, and after what appeared to be an internal debate, he approached and sat down at the opposite side of the bench.

Up close, the man’s clothes were shabby: plain trousers and an ill-fitting shirt without a jacket. Draco held his tongue and waited for an introduction. The stranger looked Draco up and down and sighed in resignation—not a good sign.

“You must be here about the position.”

“Well, yes.” Draco held out his hand, but the man looked at it sceptically.

“Because I can’t imagine another reason you’d be in Letterkenny, Malfoy.”

Ah. He’d been recognised. There was a decidedly English accent to the voice—London?—and a deeply suspicious look in the man’s eyes. Draco floundered for something to say.

“I take it you aren’t Irish, Mr…?”

The man’s lips twitched under the moustache. “Jones. And you aren’t Mr Black.”

With a sinking feeling, Draco realised he had to answer for that. He’d applied with the name D. L. Black, not wanting his resume to be chucked on the bottom of the pile at first glance. He shouldn’t have been so hasty to assume the wizard looking for a caretaker was an old Irishman; now he’d started off on a bad foot, with a lie. Perhaps it could be explained away. “You can see why I used my mother’s maiden name on the paperwork. I wasn’t trying to be dishonest, just…”

“Just sneaky. You always were.”

Draco withdrew the hand that he realised he was still holding out. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

The man tensed further. “Why are you really here, Malfoy?”

Hearing his name spoken with such distaste set Draco on edge. “As you said, I’m here about the position. But if you aren’t interested in my credentials, which speak for themselves, I can just as easily go back to the pub.”

“I never said I wasn’t—wait. The pub?” Jones scrunched his nose up in confusion. “The only pubs here are Muggle.”

“I’m well aware.”

“You expect me to believe you were drinking at a Muggle pub? An _Irish_ Muggle pub? Pull the other one, Malfoy.”

“I haven’t pulled the first one,” Draco answered dryly. “Now, I respect that you may have your doubts about me, Mr Jones, but I came here in good faith. Name aside, my résumé is perfectly in order.”

“The restoration of an English country manor, including removal of Dark artefacts and re-establishment of the wards,” Jones recited. “You must mean Malfoy Manor, don't you?”

“I do,” Draco conceded; he'd left property titles off his application, well aware of any preconceptions the public had about the house he'd grown up in. “The French estates provided their own challenges, and were absent any Dark artefacts or shady pasts.” _Mostly._

“I'm sure,” Jones snorted. “Didn't think you needed to work. Why bother with peasant stuff like this?”

Being at a disadvantage was starting to grate on Draco's nerves. “It seems you know me well, Mr Jones, but I have no idea who you are. Have you lived in Ireland long? Is this a family estate you're hiring for?”

Jones picked absently at a loose thread on the knee of his trousers. “You don't need to know me, only the house.”

Draco disagreed, but it was a perfect segue if there ever was one. “May I suggest you show me this house, then?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Jones sighed wearily. “Yeah, alright. You came all this way, I guess it can't hurt.” He rose from the bench and stood to the side, waiting for Draco to join him. “You’ll have to trust me enough to Apparate.”

“Do you trust _me?_ ” Draco asked, before biting his tongue. That was a stupid question; it was obvious that this Mr Jones didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. _Sneaky, indeed._

Yet the stranger held out in own hand, a repeat of Draco’s earlier gesture. “In general? No. But,” he added with a wry smile, “I suppose I do trust you with my life, Malfoy.”

Draco, unable to come up with a more eloquent answer than, “Huh?” took the proffered hand, and felt the twisting pull of Apparition.

_—————_

The world blurred, and after the familiar experience of being squeezed down to nothing and forming again with a ‘pop,’ resolved into a stark landscape of rocks and low brush. Gone were the trees and the half-sleepy owls of the park; in their place were chattering seagulls and a carpet of grass, dotted here and there with golden yellow wildflowers. Off to the left lay a small cluster of ruined buildings, and all before Draco stretched the wide, roiling sea.

The view took him by surprise, and he gasped, pulling crisp, salty air into his lungs. He spun around, and saw a hill rising behind him, topped with a grey sky.

“Where are we?”

“Inishtrahull,” Jones spoke from behind him. “It’s north, on an island off the coast of County Donegal. The farthest north you can get in Ireland, actually.”

“I can believe that.” The place looked absolutely deserted. “Where is everyone? Or anything at all?” Draco looked back over his shoulder, suddenly quite aware that he was all alone with a stranger. He hadn’t received any death threats lately, but that was only because people weren’t sure where to send the owls. He casually felt for his wand, currently in his pocket.

Jones must have caught the movement, because he grinned. “If I wanted to kill you, I could have done that in Letterkenny.”

Draco bit back a retort of _you could try_ and cast his gaze down the coast, then back up the hill. “So where’s the house? Unless you mean those ruins over there.”

“Definitely not.” Jones started to walk up the hill, and Draco followed. “Those ruins are what remains of a small Muggle village. They left a hundred years ago, and now the Muggle Irish Government calls this a wildlife area, so I don’t have to worry about any other people living here. Very occasionally, Muggles come out here to birdwatch, but the house has been charmed to appear as a crumbling wreck.”

A vague sense of a path appeared as they ascended the hill. Draco gingerly stepped over some stones—he hadn’t worn the proper shoes for this. “What about Muggles with a sense of curiosity, don’t they want to explore?”

“If they approach, they suddenly get the sense the area is dangerous. It’s like Hogwarts, you know?”

“I’m familiar with the spell. You went to Hogwarts?” Jones didn’t respond to the question, only continued walking. They crested a rise and paused; Draco had to admit the view was spectacular. “How long until we get there?”

“Oh, we’re here. You just can’t see it yet.” Here Jones hesitated. “Merlin knows I might come to regret this, but… I’m going to give you a fair shake, Malfoy. But you have to agree to be Obliviated if I don’t hire you. Not entirely!” he assured, as if sensing Draco’s objection. “Just the address. It’s Unplottable and under a Fidelius Charm.”

This whole situation just kept getting more confusing to Draco. This man wasn’t Irish, was obviously wealthy, and concerned enough about his privacy to have a number of spells concealing his home. Yet Draco had never heard of him? All sorts of alarm bells were going off. Still… “As you said, I’ve come all this way. I’ll agree. But _only_ the address. I don’t fancy waking up with holes in my memory.”

“The address and one other detail,” the man added. “You’ll see what I mean. Alright then: Inisview can be found on Inishtrahull island, Country Donegal, on the side of the tallest hill at the end of the flagstone path with a rosebush at the gate.”

 _What on earth kind of address is that?_ Draco wondered, as suddenly a large stone house shimmered into existence in front of him. Immediately in front of him, in fact—the gate with the rosebush was about six inches away from his feet, and he leapt backwards with a startled yip. Jones stifled a laugh and reached forward to unlock the gate with a key.

“It’s a nice place, yeah?” he said, gesturing at the house. It was three stories tall, maybe a quarter the size of the Manor, although Draco knew well that looks could be deceiving when it came to size in wizarding homes. The outside walls were covered in stones of various sizes which were worked into the mortar, giving the house a rustic look. The roof was pitched with a flat top, probably a viewing deck for watching the sea. Several more rose bushes crowded along the northern wall, and Draco supposed the rest of the garden must lay behind the house.

“It’s quite charming,” he conceded. “A very lovely retreat. I assume it isn’t used as a main residence? Since it’s been vacant for so long.”

“It was a summer house for the Doherty family,” Jones confirmed. “They used it for big family gatherings, too, any time of the year. Honestly, it’s mostly bedrooms.”

“I do hope you have a Floo,” Draco said, glancing back down the twisting, rocky path that had brought them up the hill.

“Of course,” Jones assured. “And if you take the job, I’ll give you access. You won’t be able to bring anyone else through. But I don’t expect you to move in or whatnot while you’re working. It doesn’t need to be a rush job.”

“Are _you_ planning to use it as a main residence? That will affect what kind of wards I ultimately set, the kind that are elastic enough to withstand opening and closing often, or ones that act more like Stasis Charms.”

Jones scratched at his neck. “Huh, didn’t realise there was a difference. Guess that’s why I’m hiring someone.”

“And are you? Hiring me?” Draco hadn’t even seen the inside of the house yet, but his curiosity was so thoroughly piqued that he couldn’t resist. _Also, I don’t think I can handle writing in to many more adverts._

There was a long minute of silence that had Draco assuming he was about to be told off and Obliviated. Instead, Jones let out a long sigh. “Your resume was perfect, and… well, it’s odd, but I’d rather have someone I know, even if we don’t get along, instead of a total stranger.”

“You’re a total stranger to _me,_ ” Draco reminded him. “I have no idea how we’d get along. But I’ll take it.”

“Let me give you that last detail before you accept, Malfoy,” Jones said with a grim smile.

“Why? Is there something wrong with the house? Is it haunted? I can’t deal with poltergeists but I’m versed in exorcisms.”

“I—wait, really? Like the movie?”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind. Look, I’m just gonna get this over with.” Jones pulled his wand out, and Draco thought he meant to open the door to the house. Instead, he pointed it at himself.

“ _Finite Incantatem._ ”

A Glamour—a rather excellent one, Draco thought—slid off the rather plain figure of Jones, and in his place stood Harry Potter.

Draco couldn’t help it: he jumped. To his credit, Potter didn’t laugh at him, but he did smirk.

It had been what, four years since Draco had seen him? Five? He’d caught a glimpse of Potter on one occasion in Diagon Alley, and ducked behind a post rather than face his old nemesis, who was trailing a crowd of gawkers. Draco would have fled entirely, but had to finish the errands for his mother, who was still on house arrest; once her three-year sentence was over and she made a beeline for the continent, Draco in tow, he and Potter’s paths had no chance to cross again.

He looked almost the same as his teenage self, maybe with a bit of weathering that Draco had to grudgingly admit he wore well. (Admit to _himself_ of course, never to Potter.) Same messy, almost black hair, same piercing glance. No matter how much fuss the papers made about the green, Draco didn’t think it was the colour of Potter’s eyes that made him seem so intense. It was unnerving, being fixed under that stare again after so many years.

A million other thoughts ran through Draco’s head, and tried to come out of his mouth, before he finally managed, “I see why you have all the security.”

“I’m sure.” Potter rolled his eyes. “That all you have to say? Nothing about ‘famous Harry Potter’?”

Inexplicably, Draco was more annoyed at himself than with Potter for the deception. _Seven years of paying attention to every move he made, and I couldn’t even tell him under a Glamour? Some Slytherin I am._ He knew Potter expected him to revert to his same old self, the one that would have some dig about needing to make an entrance for attention, but Draco wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. They were twenty-four years old, for Merlin’s sake.

“I’ve learned to value privacy myself,” he simply answered.

Draco took immense pleasure in Potter’s impression of a landed fish, before he gathered himself. “I… alright. If you don’t have a problem…”

“I assure you I don’t.” He had several.

“And you think we can work together?”

“Together?” Draco laughed. “I need your instructions, and I’ll check in with you, but I have things well in hand. This is what I do, after all.”

Potter’s lauded green eyes were wide and curious. “I want to hear about that sometime, how this became your job.”

Oh, dear. Potter didn’t think they were going to be _friendly,_ did he? Before Draco could object, Potter rambled on, confirming Draco’s dire suspicions. “I thought I could help out, you know? It’s my house, I want to feel like I’m part of it. It’s only for family holidays and the like, since the Burrow is outgrowing the extended family, or for when I just need to get away from London. And I like to put in hard work. Keeps me sane, yeah?”

There were a thousand things that could go wrong with him and Potter working together, and Draco took a deep breath, ready to enumerate them all. But the possibility of offending Potter, who was his prospective employer, combined with the remarkable circumstances that had honestly sent him reeling, stopped him. Sometimes, Draco had learned, life presented you with a forking path, and cowardice was rarely a rewarding option.

And so, not without trepidation, Draco held his hand forward once more. “Very well. I believe we can come to an accord, if you’ll have me.”

_—————_

After shaking hands (his eleven year-old self would have been over the moon) Potter took Draco on a tour around the outside of the house. There were indeed gardens out back: rose bushes, trees, herbs, and a small hedge maze. Given the rocky nature of the island, magic was obviously sustaining the plants, but it had been years since any upkeep was done and most of them were failing.

“The garden is the part I have the least experience with,” Draco admitted. _Better to get that out of the way, than be caught in any more… bendings of the truth._ “I can refresh whatever charms were out here and revive the plants, but if you want it truly restored to its former glory, I would hire a gardener. Or even better, a house-elf who’s been trained as a gardener and can live on the premises.”

“Really, Malfoy?” Potter scoffed. “You think _I’d_ take on a house-elf? I know it’s been years, but I’m still me.”

“I suppose Granger would have your head. Does she still run that club?”

“More like a Department. Do you not read the papers in London anymore?”

Draco subscribed to seven papers, and knew exactly what Hermione Granger was doing with her time. Just like he knew Weasley was an Auror, Girl Weasley was still with the Harpies, and Potter had quit the Aurors rather abruptly only a year prior. The _Prophet_ was beside itself trying to figure out what he did with his time now, but all they could turn up was a volunteer position coaching Novice Quidditch.

Not that Draco _cared_ about any of that.

“I’ve had other things to keep me busy,” he sniffed. “And I’ve only just returned from France.”

“Right. Helping little old pure-blood ladies restore their chateaus.” The remark was dismissive, but Potter sounded almost amused. “Come on then, take a look at the house.”

Draco followed Potter through the front door, making note of which Locking Charms were used. The entrance wasn’t particularly grand, more a medium-sized foyer. Being Irish, the Doherty family hadn’t been a part of his great-grandparent’s circles, but he still knew the name—they were pure-blood social climbers whose family name had died out around 50 years ago. This foyer would have been where guests were greeted by a house-elf and turned over their travelling cloaks.

Under Potter’s care, it would probably become a catch-all for dirty coats and muddy shoes. Still, Draco could do his best to layer self-cleaning charms on the floor.

A large sitting room, a dining room, and a smaller parlour lay beyond the entrance, as well as an immense kitchen. Draco gave everything a cursory inspection, finding some residual magic but mostly cobwebs. Potter simply stood back and watched Draco intently. Eventually, he began to feel like an insect under glass.

“So!” he said, clapping his hands and startling Potter. _Ha, payback._ “I would like all the paperwork from when you bought the place, as well as any history you may have dug up. I’ll get to work reading that, and contact you in about a week with a plan.”

“There’s still another floor,” Potter pointed out, gesturing to the stairs. “Don’t you want to see that first?”

“Is it in the same state of neglect as this?” Potter nodded sheepishly. “Then no. Merlin, I hope you didn’t pay too much for this place, Potter. Never mind the freeloading spiders, it’s _small._ ”

Potter turned red. “Don’t be a snob, Malfoy. It’s homey.”

“Homely, more like,” Draco muttered, knowing Potter could hear. That handshake had been good as a binding contract under wizarding law, and Draco was free to antagonise him now, verbally at least. It felt rather wonderful after all this time kowtowing to various madames. “Would you like to meet here or in London to go over the plan?” he asked, cutting off a retort.

Potter hesitated. “I was kind of hoping to stay here, have a bit of a vacation.”

“Not until it’s been cleaned and is in somewhat working domestic order.” Potter’s only response was… was that a _pout?_ Draco was aghast. _The great hero, pouting like a child! It’s almost… Salazar help me, it’s almost cute. Like an ugly puppy._ “I’ll make one bedroom and the kitchen a priority, alright?” he rushed out. “You won’t be receiving guests anytime soon, but you’ll be able to sleep comfortably.”

Brightening, Potter nodded. “That’s fine, then. A week, you said? Can we meet on Saturday?

Saturday was five days away, not a week, but Draco didn’t argue Potter’s math. “Very well. As long as the Floo as been tested.”

“It’s fine. The estate agent fixed that and helped me with the security spells. You know”—and Potter elbowed him in the side, in a disturbingly chummy fashion—“Ron and Hermione are never going to believe this. Us working together.”

Draco could scarcely believe it himself.


	2. Chapter 2

_One Month Later_

True to his word, Draco focused on making the house vaguely habitable for Potter that first week. Aside from standard record keeping and the purchase papers, Potter had turned over very little historical information about the estate, something Draco had been expecting. There were entire volumes dedicated to Malfoy Manor, but a small Irish summer home wouldn’t warrant any mention. In an effort to gain _some_ sort of background knowledge on the property, as well as to make himself look busier than he really was, he took the entire five days and combed through several research libraries, seeking any mention of the Doherty family and their holiday getaway.

He did manage to turn up a few instances, in diaries or collections of letters, of weddings being hosted at Inisview. The house was seemingly made available for anyone, likely as part of their efforts to ingratiate themselves with higher status wizards. A few minor English families had taken them up on the offer, saving themselves the expense of hosting at their own property, and they were the ones who’d left the best paper trail in the form of invitations or boastful announcements. Draco rolled his eyes. _Nouveau riche._

It was no wonder the place was mostly guest rooms and kitchens: the Dohertys had operated the house as a glorified BnB. Draco couldn’t blame them; the view was beautiful, and there was something to be said for isolation, especially in the case of arranged marriages, which required careful negotiations between two families. Getting everyone together in one place and forcing them to interact, and keeping the new bride and groom—who may have objections—in close proximity, made sense.

Draco shuddered at the thought of what might await him if his mother had her way. Last time he’d been to the Paris flat, he’d spotted a letter from Mrs Greengrass on the silver tray where Narcissa collected her mail. He hadn’t returned since.

In a purely practical sense, Draco understood why arranged marriages were still drawn up. There were business concerns, and properties to keep within families, so heirs were of utmost importance. But it also furthered the notion of blood purity, and after the war, Draco found that he was uncomfortable with the idea. Did he want Muggles to ‘overrun the wizarding world’ (as the old madames had often feared) or to lose their traditions? Of course not. But snubbing half-bloods and Muggle-borns was a step away from being hateful, which was yet another step away from being violent, and Draco found he had no room in his heart for hate anymore, not after he’d seen what came of it.

Also, Draco was secretly a romantic, and thought people should marry who they loved.

 _Which takes marriage out of the picture for me,_ he thought somewhat bitterly. Who could fall in love with a Death Eater? Even if someone was willing to overlook his past, Draco knew that his reluctance to open himself up emotionally was a barrier to relationships. Six months of mind healing had been enough for him to learn to _identify_ his problems, but not enough to fix them, and he couldn’t bring himself to return.

No, Draco would rather avoid his issues, which is why keeping busy was so important.

_—————_

The Floo at Inisview opened into the small parlour. Draco sneezed, momentarily overcome by the combination of soot and dust, and made a mental note to prioritise chimney cleaning next.

Potter was waiting for him, slouched against the far wall. He raised a brow in greeting to Draco. His hands were in the pockets of his loose Muggle trousers, and he was doing his best to appear nonchalant, but Draco had seen doubt in his own mirrored expression too many times to not recognise it in other people. In all likelihood, Potter was questioning this whole thing already—Draco certainly was. Their brief interaction on the day Draco was hired had been too easy, even if glimpses of their old rivalry shone through. It may have been simpler if Potter had just remained as Jones.

But Draco was admittedly excited to begin the job, as he enjoyed a challenge; both Potter and the house presented him with a substantial one. _Who knows, if I am successful he may even give me a recommendation. Plenty of half-bloods and even Muggle-borns have purchased old property in recent years. I may earn my re-entry to society after all._

“Let’s begin, shall we?” Draco said in lieu of a hello. “We can get straight down to business.”

“In here?” Potter asked. “I did a bit of tidying in the hall already.” He drew his wand and lazily cast _Scourgify_ at a sofa that had seen better days.

“That’s velvet,” Draco informed him. “You need special Cleaning Spells because of the thick pile. Otherwise, you’re just cleaning the surface, and when you sit on it—”

Potter rolled his eyes and flopped down on the sofa, which belched a cloud of dust.

“— _that_ will happen,” Draco finished smugly. Potter coughed and tried to clear his glasses off with his shirt. It didn’t help much.

“How come none of that got on you?” he asked, pointing out Draco’s pristine black trousers and slate-grey shirt.

“Impervius Charm. I suggest you do the same, at least to your glasses. Your clothes were already a loss.”

Without waiting to see if Potter did as recommended, Draco made his way up the stairs to the first floor. A long hallway stretched before him, with three doors on the side, ending in French doors that led to a balcony. According to the floor plan, these bedrooms were all the same size, so it didn’t matter which one Draco chose for Potter.

 _He’s too much of a martyr to insist on the master bedroom, anyway._ Draco immediately felt bad for the uncharitable thought. Potter had saved them, after all. That didn’t make him less of an ill-mannered boor, and Draco enjoyed taunting him, but the truth was that Potter’s self-sacrificing tendencies had benefited everyone in the end.

Draco didn’t want to think about the war, or those anxious months afterwards. He strode into the very first bedroom and heard Potter enter behind him.

“Let’s clean this one up so you can stay overnight,” Draco offered. “I don’t _need_ the help, but as you’ve insisted on dogging my steps, you can learn a thing or two.”

“Whose bedroom was this?” Potter wondered aloud as he went to open a window. A light ward gave way, and the breeze rushed in, bringing the smell and sounds of the ocean.

“No one in particular.” Draco cast a temporary Screen Spell at the window, to keep out midges or flies. A more permanent one that deployed automatically when the window was opened would have to be cast later. “All of the bedrooms on this floor are guest bedrooms. Someone new would have stayed every time.”

“Probably why there’s no real personal decorations,” Potter pointed out. It was true; several small floral tapestries and a plain mirror were the only things on the wall. Tasteful, but boring.

The view from this side of the house looked over the rose bushes, out to the distant sea. “I think these bedrooms saw a good amount of joy,” he mused. “A holiday, a happy occasion. There’s good energy here.” He turned to see Potter regarding him strangely, and flushed. “Let’s get to work.”

The next few hours were spent cleaning, stopping every once in a while to demonstrate one spell or another to Potter. His charmwork was only fair, but it was enough to handle small jobs. All the floors and the walls had to be cleaned of dust (and mould, Draco suspected, being so close to the sea). Next, the furniture had to be cleaned, and for that he taught Potter the modified charm, _Scourgiferous,_ which went deeper than the standard spell. There were also charms to repel dust; to clear the air and leave a pleasing scent; to automatically sort drawers; to automatically launder clothes that were put in the wardrobe.

They mostly worked in silence, which was fine with Draco, as long-lasting spells took concentration and time to cast. Still, he couldn’t resist watching Potter from the corner of his eye and wonder what he was thinking. _Possibly that he’s made a terrible mistake and is now stuck being cooped up with me. Or perhaps that this is far more boring than he expected._ Indeed, Potter appeared restless, leaving for fresh air or to fetch water several times. He also was watching Draco surreptitiously in return, and more than once they caught each other staring.

When the room appeared mostly clean, Draco began looking behind the drawers and into corners for spots he may have missed. Potter got down on his hands and knees and peered beneath the furniture. He looked absurd with his arse waggling about in the air. Draco averted his eyes.

“Huh, look at this,” Potter said, pulling out what looked like a footstool from under the bed. “What’s this for?”

“It’s probably to help shorter people or children climb onto the bed.”

“Why cover it in fabric if you’re just going to step on it?”

“Appearances, Potter. Why _not_ make it match the rest of the room?”

“I guess.” Potter poked at the plush green stool, tinged grey after years of neglect. “Is this velvet, too?”

“No, it’s velveteen.” Velveteen was a perfect little word; Draco repeated it several times in his head.

“Don’t see the difference.”

“You wouldn’t. There is no difference in the spell, however. _Scourgiferous_ will work just fine.”

Potter cast the spell, and placed the footstool back under the bed, looking nearly as good as new. Draco would have cast at both sides; he’d come back and check Potter’s work later.

“Do you want some lunch?” Potter asked, standing up and brushing his hands off on his trousers. He hadn’t bothered with an _Impervius_ on them after all, although Draco noticed that his glasses were perfectly clean.

“We haven’t gone near the kitchen yet,” Draco reminded him. “It’s not fit for a Crup to eat in, much less us.”

“That fine!” Potter reached into his pocket and withdrew a tiny basket, which he unshrunk. “I packed a lunch. We can eat outside, it will be like a picnic.”

“A _picnic?_ ” Draco scrunched his nose up at the idea of something so childish, but followed Potter outside and down the garden path.

The picnic basket bobbed merrily along beside them as Potter seemed to search for the perfect spot. “There!” He pointed out a patch of soft grass at the top of a small hillock with one straggly willow tree. With a wave of his hand, Potter conjured a blanket that fluttered down, and sandwiches began floating out from the basket.

“You want a cheese sarnie or bacon?” Potter asked, all while gesturing at other objects from the picnic basket: a thermos, some apples, a packet of crisps. He took a seat on one corner of the blanket and looked up at Draco, who was staring with his mouth open. “What, you don’t eat Muggle food?”

“I…” _Shut your mouth, you fool, how unattractive._ “It’s not that,” Draco reassured Potter, who was beginning to get that look on his face, the one that said ‘righteous argument beginning in five seconds’. “I’m just surprised at your casual use of wandless magic.”

Potter shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”

“If you’re capable of these charms without a wand, why are you pants at dusting?”

“Oh, that.” Potter laughed. “It’s hard to care about cleaning. Not that I don’t want the place to look nice, but it’s boring.”

“And sandwiches are not?”

Potter’s eyes gleamed. “I like cooking!” He passed one of the sandwiches over to Draco, who noted that it was still warm. “I’m good at it. And I love to eat with other people. Try that one.”

Obligingly, Draco bit into the sandwich. The bread was toasted just right, and the bacon flavour burst on his tongue. “That’s really good,” he conceded.

“Told you.”

They were both quiet while they polished off two sandwiches each. Draco stared at the sea in the distance, trying to think of the next steps for the house. He could start on the kitchen this afternoon, but only the surface dust and clutter. Kitchens had numerous complicated spells involved, for food preparation and storage and—

“Here.” Potter was holding out the thermos. “There’s water.” Begrudgingly, Draco took the proffered thermos and cup. “Thought you be parched after all that work we did. And something about a sandwich always makes me thirsty.”

Peering over his cup, Draco narrowed his eyes. “You’re being awfully friendly.”

“It’s nice to talk to someone.” There was a wistful tone in Potter’s voice Draco couldn’t decipher.

“Even me?”

“Even you, Malfoy. You know, you haven’t been so bad.”

“You _are_ paying me.”

“I think you’re more of a prat than most people are with their bosses,” Potter teased. “But that’s just the way you are. It doesn’t even bother me anymore. You know, I was worried we were going to argue.”

“Why hire me, then, if you were worried?” Draco asked. He’d been worried himself, that he wouldn’t be able to keep a professional face and would instead revert to juvenile arguing.

Potter looked out at the waves in silence. Finally, he spoke, softly but evenly. “I wanted to be upset when I saw you waiting in Letterkenny. You and I… I don’t have to tell you there’s a lot between us in the past. But I’ve been trying not to be so angry. It gets inside me, you know? And then I can’t feel anything else.” He pulled a few blades of grass up with his hands and twirled them. “You weren’t doing anything wrong, just applying for a job, so I decided to give you the chance. Plus I was curious as to _why_ you were working.” He glanced over at Draco. “Still am, in fact.”

Draco took a moment to let all that sink in. _So Potter is trying to prove something to himself by being friendly with me. A martyr after all. Ah well, we all have issues to face. I suppose._ Speaking of…

“It keeps me busy,” he answered cagily. “Turns out I wasn’t made for the life of a redolent aristocrat, after all.”

“But do you _need_ to work?” Potter pressed him.

“After my money, are you? I’ll have you know the Malfoy prenups are ironclad.” It was only a joke, but Potter blushed furiously. Draco took pity on him. “No, I don’t need to work,” he answered truthfully. “I’m avoiding my mother. And no,” he cut off Potter’s next obvious question. “I’m not discussing it with you.” Potter smirked, no doubt planning how to extract Draco’s secrets from him later.

“Also,” Draco added, “I like the respect people treat me with when they hire me, or at least the old French ladies did. They defer to my opinion because I know what I’m doing, not because of my name.”

“You do know your stuff, I’ll give you that. I didn’t think that bedroom would ever look so fresh.”

“No thanks to your meddling, but yes. It will do.”

Potter laughed. “You act huffy, but you were actually pretty patient with me today, showing me all those spells.”

“I knew I wasn’t going to shake you, it seemed best to make you useful.” Draco dusted his hand of the sandwich crumbs and reached for the crisps packet.

“Sure, tell yourself that. Maybe you’re lonely, too.”

“Too?”

Potter swallowed, and turned away. _Interesting. I thought Potter was always surrounded by friends._

And damn him, Draco _knew_ that he shouldn’t press the issue. Knew that he shouldn’t go where the _Prophet_ dared, poking into Potter’s life with a fine-tooth comb. No matter how strong the obnoxious little voice in his head was—he called it his inner Pansy—there was no good that could come from getting mixed up in Potter’s drama. He’d taken a calculated risk by accepting this job, and he didn’t regret it yet, but it was prudent to keep their relationship strictly professional. Draco didn't need a reminder of what obsessing over Potter’s every move had brought him, once. Sleepless nights and days of coming in second-best.

So Draco swallowed his questions, and ripped open the packet of crisps, allowing the sound to carry over the wind instead of his words.

—————

They didn’t work every day. Potter had his kiddie coaching, and family obligations that Draco could only assume involved a preponderance of redheads. Draco himself had social obligations as well, about half of which were in France. The other half were with Pansy and Blaise, who were desperate for details about Draco’s job and refused to accept his evasive answers.

“I’ll bet it’s someone who can’t show their face back in Britain after the war,” Pansy speculated. She’d forced Draco to reveal he wasn’t in the country, at least. “Someone who was suspected of working for the other side.”

Blaise snorted. “Don’t be daft. Draco wouldn’t be caught dead risking that. _I’ll_ bet it’s some attractive bloke and our sneaky friend is hoping something comes of it, and doesn’t want to jinx his chances.”

Draco flushed. The very _idea_ of Potter being an attractive bloke! _Objectively, yes. To the general populace, of course. But to me?!_

Noticing his friend’s pink cheeks, Blaise crowed in victory. “I knew it!”

“It’s not an attractive bloke,” Draco snapped.

“Attractive bird, then?” Pansy purred. “Oh, don’t hold out on us, darling. You know we’ll drag it out of you somehow. What are friends for?”

“I hate you,” Draco grumbled, burying his head in his hands. They both cackled but relented for the rest of lunch. Draco knew he was doomed, that Pansy would indeed find some way to make him talk.

The next time he and Potter met, he awkwardly broached the subject.

“My friends are asking questions,” he began haltingly. “I can keep them off for now, but…”

“Friends?” Potter asked, rubbing the sweat from his brow. They were working in the garden that day; a dark spot of dirt smeared across his forehead and the famous scar. Draco stared (quite involuntarily) until Potter shifted awkwardly under his gaze.

“Are these friends I know? Other Slytherins?”

“Oh, er… yes. Blaise and Pansy.” Now that he said it aloud, Draco cringed. Of course Potter wouldn’t want Pansy Parkinson to know where he was. She’d only tried to hand him over to the Dark Lord. “Nevermind,” he laughed nervously. “Forget I said anything.” He went back to casting _Aguamenti_ over some Damascus roses. _Damascus,_ he whispered in his head, drawing out the sibilant at the end like a hiss.

“Alright.”

Potter’s acquiescence caught him off guard. “You—are you sure?” Draco could have kicked himself for stammering. Blaise’s words had stuck in his mind, about Potter being _attractive,_ and now Draco was having trouble concentrating on anything else.

“Yeah, sure.” Potter shrugged. “You can’t tell them my address, obviously. So why not? I don’t expect you to become a hermit along with me.”

Draco ceased watering the plants and seized the opportunity to change the subject. “Is that what you’re doing out here? I thought this was only going to be a getaway.”

“Eh." Potter twirled his fingers lazily and summoned a bucket of fertiliser. “I'm really enjoying the peace and quiet." He wrinkled his nose as the bucket flew towards them. "Merlin, that stinks. What's _in_ that?”

“Doxy shit.” Draco took great pleasure in Potter’s disgusted expression as he trowled some of the gloopy substance on the base of the rose bushes. “This is why you need to hire an elf.”

Potter finished spreading the fertiliser and backed away quickly. “How often does that need to be done?”

“Every other day.”

“You're fucking kidding me!”

“The garden needs a lot of care before it can bloom properly again. Being left unwarded in the salt air nearly killed the whole lot.”

“Thought this was your job,” Potter grumbled mutinously. The obstinate look on his face was strangely adorable, and Draco couldn't help laughing.

“Oh no, you wanted to help, remember?” Draco smirked and gestured to the house. “Let's get cleaned up and have some lunch. I saw that basket.”

“I forgot what a smug bastard you could be, Malfoy,” Potter said, but there was a smile tugging at his lips.

_—————_

The ground floor of the house slowly came together. Draco knew he could have worked faster without stopping to show Potter how the spells worked or their frequent snack breaks, but found he enjoyed their growing camaraderie. It may have been one of Potter’s strange Gryffindor whims that prompted him to hire Draco, but he seemed to genuinely like their days spent casting Cleaning Charms and lightly bickering.

Draco was still unable to unravel the mystery of Potter’s departure from the Aurors, or decipher the wistful look that sometimes passed over his face. Rather than push him, Draco decided to be respectful, their nascent friendship suddenly more important than his curiosity. ( _You’re a soft wanker,_ his inner Pansy said.)

Finally, it was time to move back upstairs. Four bedrooms remained on the first floor; Draco made the decision to proceed straight down the hallway. Some of the rooms were sealed, but not all the wards had held fast over the years, especially those at the windows. There was a lot of dust, a lot of sneezing, and one horrifying afternoon involving a hexed mirror and a vast number of seagulls. Draco shuddered and put it out of his mind.

Today, with the east side of the house completed and no more cursed furniture in sight, Draco and Harry settled down on what Draco had come to think of as _their_ bluff for that day’s picnic. There was a cold pasta salad, apples, and a lovely little treacle tart. Draco spied the tart immediately, and his sweet tooth decided that it was a dessert first kind of day. It disappeared in three bites.

“That was spectacular,” he declared, licking his fingers. Potter stared for a long moment, before quickly turning back to his own portion of the tart.

“It’s one of the first recipes I wanted to learn. It’s my favourite.”

Draco indeed remembered that Potter had attacked this kind of tart with gusto whenever it was served at Hogwarts, but didn’t let that slip. “You were quite successful.”

Potter didn’t thank him, or say anything else. They moved on to the pasta, which was delicious and filling. “You should have a dinner for your friends and family when the house is done,” Draco told him. “The house will like that. I can’t see a proper pure-blood family like the Dohertys indulging in picnics, but the kitchen would have been the busiest part of the house at one time.”

He could picture it in his mind: smaller versions of the banquets he’d grown up with. There was much of Draco’s childhood that he didn’t miss—the cold manipulations of his father, for instance—and he regretted the cruelty and hatred he’d been surrounded with. But the holidays had been indulgent and carefree, and he felt a wave of nostalgia for them.

On its heels came an overwhelming sense of guilt. _I’m despicable, mourning our high society feasts when I saw someone murdered on that very dining room table where we carved the Christmas fowl._

“I didn't always like to cook.” Potter’s quiet voice interrupted Draco’s morbid thoughts.

“Beg pardon?” Draco asked, grateful for the distraction.

“It wasn’t something fun when I was young. It was… well. A chore.” Potter settled back on the blanket, gazing over the coastline. “So when I first lived on my own, after Hogwarts, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was living on takeaway. Eventually, Mrs Weasley took pity on me and gave me a few lessons, and some cookbooks for my birthday.”

Draco reached for the shiniest apple and took a bite. _When he was young? Not at Hogwarts, obviously._ Even though Potter had volunteered the information, it didn’t look as if he wanted to discuss it further. “I don’t cook,” Draco simply stated after he was done chewing.

“Yeah, you have house-elves, I suppose.”

Draco did indeed have elves; rather, the Manor had elves and they Flooed meals over to the small London flat Draco was renting while working for Potter. “You should learn to cook,” Potter added. “I could lend you some books.”

“My mother would roll over in her grave if she knew I was cooking, and she’s not even dead yet.” Draco perked up. “Actually, that’s a lovely reason to do it. Send me a book, I’ll leave it lying around for her to see the next time I visit.”

“You don’t think she’d appreciate you trying new things?”

“Absolutely not. The fact I’m pursuing _work_ is bad enough. If I make my own meals like a peasant she may write me off completely.”

Potter craned his neck to look up at Draco from his prone position. “I thought you loved your mum.”

“I do love her,” Draco protested. “She just… she sees me following the path she always wanted. And it seems… I don’t know. Disingenuous to carry on as if everything is the same.”

Potter watched him, not speaking, and Draco turned away quickly. Talking about his new direction was too close to discussing what had happened _before,_ and Draco didn’t think he could handle that right now, with Potter’s knowing stare fixed directly on him and the breeze ruffling his dark hair.

Draco took a too-large bite of his apple and immediately wanted water. Rather than asking Potter to wave it over with his infuriatingly easy magic, he pulled his own wand and summoned it himself.

“I like your wand.” Potter was pointing at Draco’s wand, his second in life.

“Yes, elm is well-suited to casting charms that last a long while.”

Potter didn’t draw his hand back right away, as if he wanted to stroke the wand. “It’s prettier than your other one. Sorry about that, by the way.”

“Er… right.” Draco was well aware that his old wand was on display in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. He had studiously avoided the place.

“I didn’t think that was right. I mean, not just because I hated all the fuss, but because it was _yours,_ and a first wand means so much.”

Memories threatened to flood Draco’s mind, of being eleven, of being so full of hope and smugness and naïveté. “It’s fine,” he said shortly. “This one works better.” It didn’t; it worked just as well, but it was _different,_ not better. Draco didn’t think he could have touched the hawthorn wand after everything it had been used for, though.

“Yours worked really well for me. Almost as if it liked me.”

Draco had no answer for that. He’d gone over that moment in the Manor a thousand times, unsure if he’d allowed Potter to take his wand or not. _I just want to think better of myself. To defend what I did since it all ended up fine in the end. It was indecision, not bravery. Potter won in spite of what I did, not because of it._

Being alone with Potter, faced with his own inadequacies, was suddenly too much for Draco. He threw the apple core as far as it would go, and listened as it rolled down the hillside. “Let’s finish up for today,” he said sharply, standing up. “I have several obligations this weekend, so I’d like to get back to London.”

Potter bristled at the change in Draco’s voice. “Whatever, Malfoy.” He set the picnic to packing itself back up, and rolled his eyes. “Seeing your girlfriend, I guess?”

Draco couldn’t contain a yelp of laughter. “Sorry, what?”

“You and Pansy?”

“Ha! Oh, that’s a good one.” Potter huffed, and Draco saw that he’d been serious. “Why would you say that?”

“Weren’t you dating in school?”

Oh, this was a much lighter conversational topic, and a more amusing one. “Never worked out. We both had a raging crush on Blaise in fifth year and it came between us.”

Potter startled, the picnic basket jumping along with him. “I didn’t know you were gay.”

“I’m not. I’m equal opportunity.” Draco wondered if that was too much information for an employee to disclose, but this wasn’t just any boss, it was Potter.

Potter nodded sagely. “Ah. Like Luna.”

“Lovegood? Somehow I’m not surprised.” Draco watched Potter’s face for any hint of disapproval, but he saw none—and he hadn’t expected to, really.

“She’s dating Ginny,” Potter continued, “when Gin is in town at least. She’s got a boyfriend too, though, some guy she met when she was travelling, Rolf something or other.”

“I see. Well, bully for Lovegood. I’m afraid I myself am a one-person… person. In theory, at least.”

“Theory?” Potter asked curiously.

“Well, I’ve never had a relationship, have I?” Draco admitted. “Not a real one, at least. And school doesn’t count, so as far as I know, you haven’t either. Unless,” Draco teased, “you’re the Weaselette’s side-piece.”

“Don’t call her that,” Harry said reflexively. “And I think I’m a one-person, er, person as well.”

“Much to the dismay of the readers of _Witch Weekly,_ I’m sure.”

“Ha, ha.” Potter blushed, and Draco bit the inside of his cheek at how stupidly cute it was.

As they walked back to the house, Potter spoke again. “I think I know what you mean, about continuing on as if things were the same. That’s what being an Auror felt like. Or dating Ginny.”

“Yes. Right. I see.” Draco stood by the gate awkwardly, wondering if Potter was about to try and have a heart-to-heart with him, and if he would allow it. But Potter instead backed away towards the garden.

“I’m going to stay for a while, enjoy the garden after we worked so hard on it.”

“I can find my own way to the Floo, don’t worry. I’ll see you next week at the appointed time?”

Potter waved him off, and Draco made his way home, trying to ignore the strange little spark of anticipation in his heart.


	3. Chapter 3

Under a new layer of fertiliser and protective spells, the garden began blooming wonderfully, and Draco found himself hesitant to leave at the end of the day. It was so lovely on Inishtrahull, so relaxing. Harry obviously felt the same way, since he hadn’t returned to London in a week.

Rather than stay cooped up inside, they left the remainder of the first floor for the time being, and went back outside to work on the front walk. There was less foliage, which Draco was secretly pleased with; it was more easily defended if the wards should ever fall.

_When did I start worrying about Potter? He can take care of himself._

Truthfully, this whole experience was starting to feel less like a job and more like a... project, something to do with a friend. Draco still enjoyed taking the piss out of Potter, but it wasn’t out of spite anymore, or even as a reflex. Potter’s reactions to Draco’s teasing words were hilariously adorable, and he looked forward to the flustered noises and blushes.

Even as he told himself he shouldn’t.

Today Potter was pushing the front gate open and shut, grimacing at the noise. “It won't stop squeaking,” he complained. “I’ve hit it with every repair spell I know.”

“I thought you lived with Muggles, once.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Occasionally, magic isn’t the best solution.” Draco summoned the small bag he brought with him everyday, and pulled out a bottle of grease, which he applied to the hinges. “Try it now.”

The gate swung open easily, the shrieking noise quelled. Draco smiled smugly.

Harry laughed and clapped Draco on the back. “You still surprise me sometimes, you know that, Malfoy?” Draco shivered under the touch.

“Just, er, keeping you on your toes.” Potters hands lingered on the small of Draco’s back. “You—you’ll need to reapply that if it squeaks again. I’ll leave you the bottle.”

Potter drew his hand back but didn’t move away. “Or I’ll hire you to fix it again.”

Draco laughed nervously and placed the bottle in the gate post. Any retort died on his tongue as he realised he wouldn’t mind that at all.

_—————_

Walkway completed, they grudgingly headed back inside the next day. Before the west side of the first floor could be dealt with, there was the sole centre bedroom tucked inconspicuously between the two flights of stairs.

In retrospect, Draco should have known better than to open the door without more preparation. It was overly ornate, embossed with roses and twining leaves of ivy, far more elaborate than the rest of the house. More importantly, there were individual wards on the door—not enough to keep Draco out, but it was the principle of the thing. The room was obviously set aside for some separate purpose. But if curiosity killed the cat, Draco was a Kneazle on its ninth life, and he never met a door he could resist.

“Potter,” he called out. Even with the Expansion Charms on the first floor, he knew his voice would echo throughout the whole house and find Potter wherever he’d gone off. Draco scuffed his feet in the dust that clung to the baseboard while he waited. Eventually, Potter poked his head around the corner.

“What is it?”

“Come open this door with me.”

Potter approached the door warily. “There aren’t seagulls again, are there? That was awful.”

“Definitely not. This room isn’t open to the outside, as far as I can tell from the floor plan. It’s entirely interior.” Draco let those words trip over his tongue for a moment. They were quite lovely together. _Entirely interior. En-ti-re—_

“Draco. You’re drifting.”

“Hmm? Oh, sorry.” Draco dragged his thoughts back. _We've spent enough time together that he notices when I'm in my own world._

Potter reached out and ran one finger over a rose, tracing the leaves and thornless stem. “It’s a bit much, innit? What do you think is inside?”

“Only one way to find out. Standard precautions, of course,” Draco added pulling his wand out and waving it over the width of the doors. “See, there are remnants of wards, but not particularly strong ones. Certainly not the kind one would use if they were hiding dangerous objects in their own family home. They feel… squishy.”

“Squishy?” Potter stifled a laugh.

“Who’s the professional here?”

“Of course, of course,” Potter nodded, in a way that Draco suspected was patronising. “Alright, then.” Potter pushed on the door, but it wouldn't give. “Some trick to it?”

“Perhaps…” Draco stepped in front of him and tried the door himself. “Strange. There shouldn’t be enough left of the wards to guard against entry.”

“Well maybe—here, shove over.” Potter’s shoulder met his, and Draco pushed right back.

“I’m _trying_ to—”

“Just—!”

Their hands met, directly above a faded pink rose, and under their combined efforts the door swung open at last.

It was actually two doors, the seam between them disguised by years of flaking paint, and they creaked on their hinges. He and Potter both warily inched their way over the threshold and looked around. As Draco had suspected, there was no window, but the very act of opening the door had caused the room to fill with a soft light, almost like the late afternoon sun that trickled into the house from the west. The setup of the room wasn't anything special, and Draco took note of how domestic the contents were: sideboard with a pitcher and basin, wardrobe with only enough room for a few robes, and a bed. It didn't appear to be anything worth guarding, even if the furniture was extremely well-made.

“Wow,” Potter breathed into the silence. “That is some bed.”

It really was. The same roses as carved on the door twined up the four posters and the headboard, the paint less faded here. A riot of green, pink, red and white weighed the whole frame down, and was reflected on the sumptuous linen.

“Makes you want a nap right now, eh?”

Draco couldn’t help but agree. The air in the room had a soporific quality. “Maybe that’s why this room was hidden. A little escape within the house, from whatever crowds had descended on it for the summer. You can almost imagine the hostess climbing up the stairs and breathing a sigh of relief as the hubbub faded away.” He turned back to find Potter staring at him in fascination. “What?”

“Nothing. You just… you always manage to find stories here. Have you always done that in the places you go?”

“I suppose.” Draco trailed a hand down the vines on the four-poster. The wood was cool and smooth, with no residue from the years of isolation. He tried to answer Potter’s question in more detail. “Even at Hogwarts, I liked to think about all the feet that had tread the Grand Staircase before me. All the Slytherins that had slept in my bed.”

“I wish I had thought about that.” Potter stepped closer, placed a hand on the verdant footboard. “Everyone else who came before us. I never really paid attention to history unless it directly affected me, like research for the war. I slept through Binn’s class.” He laughed self-deprecatingly. “Hell, here I am in a house full of history, and I don’t even know about my own grandparents.”

“Euphemia and Fleamont.” Draco murmured absently. “The Potters were quite a respectable family.” The bed really _did_ look very tempting for a nap. He couldn’t drag his focus from it.

“Like yours?” Potter sounded far away.

“I don’t have a lot of respect left for my family.” It still hurt to admit it, like a thorn hidden beneath one of the wooden roses. _I’m not entirely sure I respect myself. Entirely. En-ti-re-ly. Interior._

Potter, as if reading Draco’s mind, said, “I respect you.”

“I— really?” That was news to Draco. He and Potter had been getting along almost like old friends, and there had been those loaded, heated looks Potter kept giving him, but _respect?_ That felt unattainable, a pipe-dream Draco may have had when he was eleven but quickly outgrew.

“Your name doesn’t taste bad in my mouth anymore.”

Draco couldn’t bring himself to feel offended. Potter had every reason to spit out _Malfoy_ like something rotten. But that begged the question, did he respect Potter in return? The answer came almost immediately— _yes_. He’d respected him the moment he defeated the Dark Lord, freeing Draco from his clutches.

That wasn’t exactly true, though. He’d been grateful to Potter, even in awe of him, but that wasn’t respect. Seeing him try to navigate his adult life, working through whatever the hell was going on in his head—and Draco would find out, eventually— _that_ is what made Draco respect him.

He must have crept closer as Draco pondered, because Potter felt very near now. The warmth of his body was soothing, even as his proximity caused Draco to nervously brace himself against the bed frame. The atmosphere in the room seemed very thick, more like the ocean than air.

Potter glanced down at the luxurious bed coverings. “It’d be like lying in the garden,” he said.

“Have you done that?” Draco asked, remembering all the times that Potter had thrown himself back against their picnic blanket, surrounded by treats he’d made with care and brought to share together. A vision came to him unbidden, of Potter under the rose bushes, hair tousled and dirty.

“A few times.” Potter rubbed a wooden leaf between his thumb and forefinger. “It felt lonely though, without you.”

Draco’s head was swimming. “I’ll lie down with you.”

“Yeah?” Potter spoke softly, as if he were worried to wake some long dead resident of the room. “Under the roses?”

“Of course.” Draco punctuated his promise by running his hand over one of the carved roses that bloomed from the bed.

It released a cloud of glowing dust.

Draco sneezed, and Potter giggled. “Hey now,” Draco protested, “don’t laugh at— _achoo!_ ”

Potter laughed, then snorted, causing him to begin sneezing as well. “They’re alive!” he managed between gasps, and touched another bed-rose. More dust puffed out into the air, and the other roses seemed to take their cue. Soon they were both cackling like madmen.

“Wha—what is happening?” Potter couldn't seem to catch his breath, and was leaning on Draco hard enough to cause him to lean over the bed for support.

“I have no idea!” Draco felt tears in the corner of his eyes, knew they were of mirth. He hadn’t had this much fun in ages. What was so funny? Right, Potter. Potter was funny.

“You’re so funny, Harry,” he wheezed. He felt Potter stiffen over him, then practically melt.

“Oh,” he sighed. “Oh, _Draco._ ”

 _Who’s that?_ Draco thought nonsensically, before it hit him like a bolt from the sky.

“That’s me.”

Harry's hand found its way over Draco’s own. Harry’s skin was cool where Draco’s was clammy, a balmy contrast. Draco wished there was a window so he could feel the sea air over his skin, which was tingling now, a million tiny pinpricks. _That must be from the dust,_ he concluded. Golden dust, all in the air, surrounding him, surrounding Harry. He turned in Harry’s arms—when had that happened?—and found himself staring into green. The world shrunk to nothing but the golden-outlined shape of the man in front of him, and Draco shook his head, half-heartedly attempting to keep himself—sober? No, that wasn’t right…

“Draco,” Harry whispered once more.

The kiss felt strangely inevitable. Surrounded by the golden dust motes, Draco simply felt the urge to erase the blank space between Harry and himself. Once their lips met it was like a starting gun had been fired— _here we go, race towards the finish line._ Dimly, Draco wondered what the conclusion to a such a kiss could be, especially as he felt the stuffy air in the room hit his bare chest. When had Harry unbuttoned Draco’s shirt? Why was he still wearing his own? And shouldn’t they match? Draco hastily pulled Harry’s jumper over his head, static mussing the already unruly dark strands even further.

More clothing was pulled off as Harry and Draco paused between each article’s removal for another heated hiss, and another. Draco began to feel dizzy, and tilted sideways; Harry caught him and lowered him to the bed. Draco made a pleading whine—why was Harry so far away?—and Harry climbed on the bed as well, soothing Draco with several more kisses. Draco felt the mattress dip, then Harry was straddling him. It was a comfortable weight, and Draco wiggled a bit to encourage him to press down further. Harry did, and Draco gasped as he felt Harry’s cock against his own, hard and insistent.

The sensation of their cocks rubbing together sent arousal rocketing through Draco as it became clear just how naked they were. He arched up again, chasing pleasure, and closed his eyes against the overwhelming friction. When he opened them again, Harry was staring down at his, holding his hands over Draco’s chest with a baffled look.

“What’s wrong,” Draco murmured, trying not to buck up again.

“I can't—I want to touch you.”

Draco wanted that too. “Where?”

“ _Everywhere,_ ” Harry moaned. “It's been killing me. I don't know where to—but I _have_ to—” Potters hands found Draco’s waist, and he dug his fingers into Draco's sides, gripping hard enough to steady himself. “You're so fit it fucking _hurts_ me, you bastard, why'd you have to be so fit?”

Draco smiled at the praise. “You are too, you know.” He’d sworn he would never admit to anyone how attractive Harry was (even to himself) but now he couldn’t remember why that had seemed like a good idea. “You’re so handsome,” he continued, and Harry’s smile was blinding, proving that it had been a terrible idea to hold back. “You’re gorgeous, fucking kiss me.”

Eager to oblige, Harry leaned over Draco until there was no space left between them and kissed him fiercely. Harry’s fingertips ran a delicate counterpoint up and down Draco’s jaw, almost tickling, until he followed them with his tongue. Draco pulled him in tight when he began to suck on Draco’s neck, which was one of his absolute favourite places to be touched.

“Please, please!” Draco pleaded, unsure what he was begging for.

“I want…” Harry started, then went back to sucking bruises onto Draco’s skin.

“What do you want, Harry?” Draco managed.

Harry pulled back with seemingly great effort. “I don't know! I want to be inside you, I want you inside of me, I just _want._ ” He returned to kissing Draco’s mouth, nipping at his lower lip.

Draco was blown away by the very notion of fucking Harry. He didn't care how, and it seemed Harry didn't care either. “It can't go both ways at once,” he panted into Harry’s insistent mouth.

“So unfair,” Harry sighed. Then he ground himself back down against Draco's prick. “This works,” he whispered. “Just like this.” He waved his hand, and Draco was confused as to why until he felt lube dripping down both their cocks.

“Are you kidding me?” he laughed breathlessly. “Wandless lube?”

“Mmm, you’ll like this,” Harry said, reaching down and taking them both in hand. Draco did like it very much, especially when Harry rolled his foreskin back and began playing with it. The lube was even warm, and it ran down his balls to the crack of his arse. The feeling of warm wetness on his hole gave him an idea.

“Harry, wait—let me—” Draco shimmied out from under Harry, ignoring his protesting whine, and moved further up the bed. “Alright, come back here,” he said, spreading his legs and motioning for Harry to come between them.

“This way?” Harry asked, catching on to what Draco wanted. He slipped a hand down and rubbed one finger over Draco’s arsehole. Distantly, Draco questioned if Harry had done this before, then quickly decided it didn’t matter. He seemed to know what he was doing, in any case, slowly pushing one finger into Draco’s heat.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to,” Draco assured him. “I’m so ready.” He’d never been more ready for anything in his life.

“Yeah, but I want to feel you.”

For the moment, Draco didn’t argue, even as his brain was screaming at him to fuck. The idea that Harry was touching him from the inside had him reeling.

Then Harry pressed the pad of his finger upwards and it was too much for Draco. “Now now _now!_ ” he demanded.

Harry knelt between his legs, and Draco lifted one knee over his shoulder. It was an extremely vulnerable position, and some part of Draco’s subconscious told him to leave, to defend himself. But Harry was here, and Harry was safe, and Harry was finding the soft, warm entrance to Draco’s body with the head of his prick, so everything would be fine…

Then Harry pushed inside of him, only a bit at first, then a little more as Draco didn’t show any signs of discomfort. Draco’s thoughts were like birds fluttering in his mind. _Harry wants, me, Harry is inside me, how is this happening? This is what must happen, I need it, I need him._

“I need you,” Draco said again, aloud this time.

Slowly, Harry began rocking back and forth, fucking Draco with about a third of his cock. “Oh my god,” Harry moaned. “Oh—oh god, you feel amazing.” He stared down at the place where they were joined and watched himself sink further inside Draco. “Is this—is this alright?”

Draco didn’t answer, choosing instead to reach out and take hold of Harry’s hips, pulling him further up the bed. “All the way,” he demanded, and Harry shuddered.

“Yeah, all the way,” he agreed. “Fuck, Draco, let me in.”

Despite the need in his eyes, Harry was patient, and continued to move his cock slowly in and out of Draco’s body, eventually pausing at the end of each incrementally deeper thrust until he was fucking Draco with the entirety of his length. Draco began purposefully squeezing each time Harry bottomed out, and they both groaned and clutched harder at each other.

Every time, Harry pulled out, the slow drag of the shaft of his prick against Draco’s rim caused Draco to twitch and shake. Every time Harry buried himself as deep as he could, Draco cried out. Where before it had seemed like a race, now Draco could imagine being nowhere else, and would have been quite happy to be fucked slowly for the rest of eternity. He could not, in fact, determine how much time had passed; with no windows, the room was isolated from the outside world.

Their bodies couldn’t hold out forever, though, and soon enough Harry started to speed up, just a bit at first. The effort of holding himself up over Draco for so long showed in his taut and straining muscles, and Draco admired his stamina. He took one hand from Harry’s waist and trailed it up his side, then over his arms, then into his hair. Draco pulled Harry down into a kiss, and Harry made a soft noise of surprise, speeding up even more. Draco had to pull back, as he couldn’t keep the kiss going through the more vigorous movement.

“Harder, Harry,” Draco urged, and Harry obliged, taking hold of Draco’s shoulders and pulling him down the bed each time he thrust. Draco’s breath was punched out of him in short little huffs, and he felt as lightheaded as he had when they began kissing in the golden dust. His cock was leaking, and he reached down to wank himself.

He looked up to find Harry admiring him. “You look so fucking hot touching yourself like that,” Harry managed to say as he pounded Draco into the exceedingly comfortable mattress.

Harry’s cock alone, as amazing as it felt entirely inside him, wasn’t quite enough to make Draco come, even as he grazed over that spot that made Draco see stars. But the slip and slide of Draco’s fist over his heretofore neglected cock was the catalyst he needed. He pulled himself off exactly how he liked, just this side of painful, and felt his muscles begin to tense, his toes begin to curl.

“Oh, oh Merlin, oh fuck,” Draco heard himself babbling. “Fuck, Harry, I’m going to come, please don’t stop, don’t stop!”

“ _Never,_ ” Harry promised fervently. “Are you coming now?”

“Yes, yessss!” There were sparks under Draco’s skin: in the tips of his fingers as they clawed at Harry’s sweaty back, in his pulsing cock as it shot creamy spunk over his chest, in his stretched arsehole as he bore down against Harry. There even seemed to be sparks in the air, so golden and lovely. Dimly he heard Harry shouting as he thrust balls-deep in Draco and stayed there for a moment, as Draco’s own orgasm drew out longer than he’d ever experienced. Harry fucked him lazily through the end of it, then collapsed over him.

Neither of them said a word.

Absently, Draco petted Harry as he watched the light in the room dim back to the daytime-like glow that had greeted them when they first stepped in. He felt as if they had completed something, a job well done. He also felt exceptionally tired.

Harry mumbled something into his shoulder and rolled off just enough to get comfortable, and they both drifted off to sleep.

_—————_

The first thing Draco noticed when he woke was the heavy weight of Potter’s arm draped over his waist. The second was the soft puff of Potter’s breath along the back of his neck. It tickled, and Draco shivered, unsure of how he came to be in this position.

Then he opened his eyes, and the events of that afternoon came into focus with startling clarity.

The false light had dimmed and the golden glow had dissipated, but Draco could still see the room and the rose-covered bed that had tempted him and Potter to lie down and… _Oh. Merlin and Circe both._ It was suddenly imperative that Draco get out of bed, get out of this room. He wriggled out from Potter’s grip, and noticed a third thing.

Potter’s sticky come running down his thighs.

Panicking, Draco shot up so fast he nearly fell off the bed and became tangled in the bedcovers. His struggles roused Potter as well, who sat up with a yawn.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, as if the answer wasn’t _everything._

Draco let out an undignified squeak and pulled a blanket up to his chin, suddenly aware of his nudity. Potter blinked at him a few times, then turned ashen.

“What the fuck!” he yelped, scrambling for his own corner of the blanket. His bare foot brushed Draco’s leg, and Draco kicked out instinctively, sending Potter tumbling off the side of the bed. Unfortunately, the blanket went with him. Now even more exposed, Draco dove off his own side of the bed and cowered beside it.

“Put some clothes on!” he yelled at Potter.

“I don’t know where they’ve gone!” came the answer from the other side of the bed. Draco racked his brain, thinking back to when they had first stripped, blushing harder as he remembered all the ways Potter had touched him. _Right, we were standing at the foot of the bed, and he pulled off my shirt._ He crawled in that direction and reached around the bed, feeling for the clothes more than looking for them, afraid to see another glimpse of Potter’s bare arse. Finally, he had two pairs of trousers in hand, and threw the less stylish ones over the bed, as well as a jumper. His shirt was nowhere to be found.

It was difficult to pull his trousers on while crouching on the floor, but Draco managed. When he finally stood up, it was to the sight of Potter’s head emerging from the jumper, static clinging to his hair. He wore a befuddled expression, and he hadn’t bothered to zip his fly.

Draco was _not_ going to point that out.

“What… what happened to us?” Potter asked faintly. Draco shook his head, unable to look Potter in the eye. He did note that Potter didn’t seem disgusted, simply confused.

“I have no idea,” Draco answered at last, “but we had better get out of this room.”

Potter nodded, and followed Draco towards the hall. Their wands were on the sideboard, which struck Draco as odd—but absolutely everything about this situation was as strange as a six-toed Jarvey.

Stepping into the hallway, Draco squinted in the hard late afternoon sun. It appeared to still be daylight; the whole affair must have only lasted two hours or so, including their nap. As soon as Potter had shuffled out behind him, Draco shut the rose-covered doors with a slam and set a ward over them. Then everything in the hallway went silent.

It was Potter who spoke first. “Malfoy, what the hell was that?”

 _Malfoy again._ Draco recalled Potter calling his given name in the throes of passion, and for a fleeting moment resented this turn back to the formal—and then felt bitterly ashamed. Potter hadn’t been in his right mind when he’d said Draco.

“I’ve honestly not come across anything like that before,” Draco explained haltingly. “It seemed like… a sort of compulsion spell.” He rubbed his face tiredly. “It was obviously the roses, and that dust.”

“I felt weird even before the dust. Didn’t you?”

“I suppose I did, yes. Like thinking through molasses.”

“And you have no idea what that could have been?” Potter’s voice was rising in pitch. “It was like a… like a dusty _Imperius!_ ”

“No!” Draco felt cold, and he wrapped his arms around himself. “What did you do with my shirt, anyway?” he complained, trying to hide his nipples.

Potter blanched. “I think I vanished it.”

Draco shifted on his feet, the need to escape rising again. “Of course you did. So eager, with your wandless shirt-banishing and your wandless lube.”

“Eager?! You were gagging for it!” Potter accused. Draco couldn’t even deny it—he had literally begged for Potter to fuck him.

“That wasn’t really me!” he protested.

“Well, it wasn’t me either!” Potter answered, and Draco shrunk back against the wall. Potter was right, it hadn’t been either of them making a choice. It had been—well, it hadn’t been awful. In fact, it had been amazing, the kind of toe-curling sex Draco hadn’t experienced in a long time. But the circumstances under which it happened were bizarre, and troubling. Draco needed to be anywhere else, away from Potter’s wary eyes. He needed clothes.

“Find me a shirt so I can go home,” he bit out. “I’ll be in the parlour.”

Draco hurried down the stairs, while Potter disappeared into his bedroom. After a full five minutes that seemed like an eternity, Potter came down and held a shirt out to Draco, fixing his gaze on the floor.

“Are you going now?” he asked quietly.

Draco buttoned the shirt quickly. “I think it’s for the best.”

Potter bit his lip, then asked, “Are you coming back?”

 _Coming back? Why hasn’t he punched me in the nose yet?_ Draco searched Potter’s face for any sign of anger; he didn’t find any. “Do you want me to?” he asked, dreading the answer, unsure of what he wanted himself.

Still looking anywhere but at Draco, Potter shrugged nervously. “I mean… we aren’t finished. With the house, I mean.”

Ah. Avoidance. A concept Draco was well familiar with. Maybe Potter wanted to just pretend this never happened.

“I’ll return as scheduled,” Draco replied before he could change his mind. He reached for a handful of Floo powder, well aware he was leaving behind an ocean’s worth of things unsaid.

_—————_

The instant he stepped out of the Floo into his own empty flat, Draco began hyperventilating. He collapsed onto a chair, shaking knees refusing to support him any longer, and tried to count to fifty in an effort to catch his breath. He got stuck on nineteen and simply repeated that until he felt steady enough to get into the shower.

It was difficult not to think about what happened between him and Potter when he was washing the remnants of it from his skin. Slight finger-shaped bruises dotted his waist, and his neck was ringed with love bites. _Potter doesn’t do things halfway, does he?_ Draco ran a flannel over his arsehole and hissed—he’d be sore tomorrow. Normally he would welcome that; he preferred things a little rough when he bottomed.

But what he really preferred was consent.

No matter how good the sex was, Draco hadn’t wanted it. Not today, at least. Potter was attractive, and they’d been getting on so well that Draco faced each day on Inishtrahull with anticipation. He even suspected Potter had been flirting with him. That didn’t mean either of them would have made the jump from tentative friends to lovers. Worse, now that Draco knew what it could be like with Potter, he knew he _could_ have made that leap if it had happened organically. If Potter had made the first move, and if they’d gone slower. Draco didn’t need to be courted like some maiden, but he did need to feel wanted. To feel respected.

Had Potter lied when he said he respected him? Did the room change their thoughts and emotions as well as drive their libidos out of control? It made Draco sick to think of, but it was a possibility. Yet Draco himself hadn’t felt compelled to say anything untrue; he’d meant it when he said he’d lay down under the roses with Potter.

Swallowing against the nausea building in his stomach, Draco shut off the water and cast a perfunctory Hot-Air Charm before crawling into his own bed. Why had he agreed to go back? Would Potter hate him? Would he blame him? He hadn’t seemed like it, but Draco wasn’t scheduled to return until Monday, and three days was a lot of time to spend thinking about how you’d been forced to fuck your onetime enemy. Even if he liked Draco in his own way, even if he somehow fancied him, that didn’t mean Potter thought Draco was worthy of anything more than a fleeting crush. Especially when deep down, Draco himself didn’t feel as if he deserved it. He shook that thought aside; wallowing in self-pity wouldn’t get him anything but insomnia.

Forget about Potter; over the next three days, Draco was going to drive _himself_ mad.

_Nineteen. Nineteen. Nineteen, twenty._


	4. Chapter 4

On Monday, the Floo spat Draco out into an uncertain situation. He’d spent the weekend tossing and turning in bed, or pacing the house, moving between cleaning and sleeping. He still had no idea how he should speak to Potter—friendly, like before? Professionally? Not at all?

Potter himself was in the kitchen, finishing off a cup of tea. It looked as though he’d been spending his nights in Inishtrahull, as the sink was full of dishes. Draco wondered if he’d passed by the rose door and remembered how it felt, if he recalled Draco’s touch with awkward fondness or with horror. When he noticed Draco in the doorway, he straightened up and put the teacup in the sink.

He didn’t offer Draco any.

Potter cleared his throat. “What, er, what should we focus on today? The next room on the first floor?”

Draco would have much rather gone back to work on the garden, but there was nothing else to be done there for the moment. Continuing work on the first floor meant dealing with the rose room, or at least being in proximity to it, but it was Potter’s suggestion so Draco figured he couldn’t be blamed it was awkward.

“Very well,” he agreed, and turned on his heel to head upstairs. At the very least, he could lose himself in the calming nature of restorative spells.

He already had his wand out and was casting diagnostic spells when Potter finally joined him. “The climate control spells in this area of the house have all worn off,” he instructed. “I’ll handle those, since they are delicate, while you tackle the dust. Also, the floor is scratched in several places. Do you remember the Waxing Charm?” Potter simply nodded, and turned away.

For nearly half an hour they continued their work in relative silence. Draco saw Potter casting him wary glances over his shoulder, but pretended not to notice. _I’ll be damned if I’m going to be the one to speak first._ As he adjusted the charm work that dealt with warming and humidity, Draco thought that maybe, just maybe, they’d be able to put the incident behind him, and he’d never have to deal with an uncomfortable conversation at all.

He should have known his luck wouldn’t hold out.

From behind him, Draco heard a shaky breath, and then: “Fuck, I can’t do this.” He turned around sharply to see Potter standing in the middle of the room with his hand in his hair.

“You can’t do what?” Draco asked with trepidation. Was Potter about to kick him out of the house?

“I can’t just stand here pretending everything is the same as it was before!”

Draco laughed nervously. “Here I thought you were going to say you couldn’t cast the Wax Charm on the hardwood. Which you don’t have to tell me, I’ve seen your shoddy work.”

“Malfoy,” Potter warned him. “Don’t joke about this.”

“No joke, that’s walnut.”

“ _Malfoy._ ” Potter’s hard stare was reminiscent of the single-minded focus Draco recalled from their Quidditch games in school. “We _fucked_ each other.”

Draco had rather thought it seemed more like lovemaking, but he wasn’t about to dare say that. “I’m well aware of what happened,” he snapped. “You seemed content to ignore it.”

Potter’s shoulders slumped, and he sat heavily in one of two wingback chairs that were in the room. “I know. It didn’t seem real at the time. But I’ve had time to think about it, and… I know it's difficult, but we need to talk.”

Draco found his way to the other chair and sat delicately on the edge. “Alright. Talk then.”

Although it had been his suggestion, Potter wrinkled his nose as if he’d smelled curdled milk. “Well, what is that room?”

“That’s the twenty-Galleon question, isn’t it?” Draco mused. As disturbing an experience it had been, the rose room also presented a challenge, and under any other circumstances Draco would have been thrilled to research it. “It was a compulsion spell that started working as soon as we entered, I believe. The flowers were the coup-de-grace. We likely could have resisted had it not been for that.”

“And was it just for… sex?” Potter asked, tugging at his collar. “Would it have done that to anyone?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Draco admitted. “I’d have to go back in and take a look at the spells. Pull them apart a little.”

“We can’t go back in there!”

“Alone, Potter.” Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m not that stupid. Something tells me it won’t activate on just one person, and even if it did, well. No harm in wanking, I suppose.” He felt much less glib than he was acting.

Potter flushed a brilliant red. “Um. Right.” He looked away from Draco, but seemed to drag his gaze back purposefully. “Malfoy. You know I’m sorry, right?”

“Er.” Potter was sorry? Draco had thought _he’d_ be the one apologising. “It certainly wasn’t your fault. And I was there, as well. I could be saying the same to you.”

“Yeah, but I was… pushy. And I was the one that…”

“Oh, get over yourself, Potter. I’m not a weak little kitten.” Potter’s wide, almost wet eyes stared at Draco guiltily, and he felt the need to reassure him. “That was fairly close to how I like things normally, so don’t fret. I didn’t choose the situation, and I most definitely would not have chosen to have my partner be unwilling, but I wasn’t a virgin. I’m not saying I don’t feel violated”—and Potter made a sad noise at that—“but I don’t blame _you_ for it.”

A small part of Draco was rather proud of himself. The selfish prick he used to be (or still was, but now actively tried not to be) would have held this over Potter’s head. But he genuinely liked Potter now, and the sad puppy look was getting to him.

“I don’t blame you either,” Potter reassured him, and Draco felt a weight lift from his shoulders. The temperamental arse that Potter used to be would have thrown this in Draco’s face. Potter bit his lip and continued, quieter now. “I didn’t like to think I wouldn’t see you again. I… I enjoy you being here. Can’t we just get over this?”

“Of course,” Draco agreed smoothly. That was easiest, after all. He couldn’t resist adding, “I know you would have never chosen to involve yourself in such a manner with someone like myself.”

“That’s not—!” Potter clenched his fists. “Yeah. Alright, good.”

“Good.”

They sat opposite each other for a long moment, before Potter stood up. “Let’s finish this room, and then you can check out the one with all the flowers. If for no other reasons than I need to know what it is, and can it be fixed, and if there are other things like that hiding in the house.”

Draco nodded. “We’ll be more careful in the future.”

By the end of the day, Draco had to admit they’d done a fine job of getting back to work. They’d even made more progress than usual. Sadly, Draco realised that was likely because they were talking less. Their easy camaraderie, gained from weeks of working side by side, had evaporated into an uneasy truce of sorts. And they didn’t eat lunch outdoors that day, instead grabbing a quick snack while standing in the kitchen.

Late that afternoon, when Draco bade Potter farewell and disappeared into the Floo, he couldn’t help but feel melancholy. Who knew what sort of friendship they could have developed if they’d never been compelled to be intimate? What sort of… relationship?

Draco couldn’t imagine things progressing in that direction now. And even though he’d never dared hope for Potter to like him that way, to _want_ him, he now found himself mourning the possibility.

_—————_

When Draco arrived to begin his work of investigating the rose room, he didn’t see Potter anywhere in the house. _He could be in the garden, but it’s more likely he’s avoided the house altogether._ That was good; there was no chance of he and Potter being swept up into carnal madness again if Potter was nowhere to be found.

With great hesitation, Draco approached the door with the flowers carved on it. This was the first hurdle: it hadn’t opened until he and Potter had both touched it. This time it was more forgiving, and creaked open under Draco’s touch. He began his diagnostic spells on the entrance.

Immediately something caught his eye. There was a ward, yes, though it was triggered not by blood but intent. There was nothing sinister—in fact, if Draco had to take a guess, he would wager that the door was opened by _curiosity._ Why it took two people he didn’t know, but there was a repeater spell underneath that allowed the door to open to anyone who had previously been inside, which explained why he was able to come in without Potter beside him.

Inside, the room looked exactly as it had on their first arrival. The covers of the bed were drawn back up, rather than rumpled and pulled off as he and Potter had left them after their consummation and subsequent tussle. It must have been charmed to erase any evidence of carnal activities. Staring at the lush bed brought back memories of those activities, and Draco blushed, caught between being turned on by the image of Potter’s naked body, now forever imprinted in his mind, and remorse for being aroused by recalling what was ultimately not a consensual act for either of them.

 _You won’t get me today, room._ Draco had cast a number of protection spells on himself today, and even drank a potion designed to ward off compulsion spells. It wouldn’t work against stronger ones such as _Imperio,_ but he had a feeling the room wasn’t set up with that sort of power behind it. Protected as well as he could be, he got down to inspecting every inch of magic in the room.

What he found complicated Draco’s feelings even more.

Two days of delicate untangling of spells later, and Draco thought he had an answer, although explaining it to Potter was going to be uncomfortable. He was composing a carefully worded owl in the parlour when the Floo chimed, and Potter came practically tumbling out of the fireplace. They simply blinked at one another for a long moment before Potter spoke.

“Did you, er, work on the weird room today?”

“I did indeed.” Potter stood there awkwardly, brushing ash off his shoulders, waiting for Draco to go on. _May as well get this over with,_ Draco thought, and braced himself. “I’ve discovered a number of… somewhat disturbing spells there, although in hindsight I’m not surprised.”

“Not surprised?” Potter’s eyebrows flew up. “That was one of the most surprising things in my life.”

Draco refrained from pointing out that Potter’s life had been absolutely full of surprises, if one were to believe the unauthorised biographies that Draco most certainly had not read. “Remember that this house was used as a sort of event space, including for weddings?” Potter nodded. “Well, I believe that was a sort of honeymoon suite.”

“Someone cast those spells for a good time? And just… left them on, and we were caught up in it?”

“Not exactly. I don’t know if you are aware of how many marriages were arranged in the past. For pure-blood families, and especially social-climbing ones like the Dohertys, advantageous matches would have been an important way to advance themselves. And while their children would have gone along with it for the good of the family, they weren’t nearly as happy as they would be if they’d made a love match. They may not have even met their intended until that week.”

Potter blanched. “Those spells were to _force_ them together?”

“I didn’t find any real force,” Draco cautioned. “There were multiple layers of mental and emotion-based spells, though. It began with a calming spell, similar to the Draught we’re familiar with. That’s what we felt first, the disorientation. There was also an effect that I’ve only seen in potions, that functions similar to alcohol.”

“It did feel a bit like being drunk,” Potter agreed.

“That particular spell lowered inhibitions. There was a mild libido increasing effect there, too.”

“Mild?” Potter gasped a single laugh. “Pull the other one, Malfoy.”

“The true lust spells were in the flowers. Remember that golden dust?” Potter shut up, obviously remembering very well from the way he flushed. “When touched by two people, they are triggered to release that. It looks like an aerosolised potion, but it’s really a spell.”

“Would any two people trigger it? Wasn’t that dangerous to leave around?”

This next part of the conversation was… delicate. “Not just any two people, no. People who are already… disposed towards one another, in a way.”

Potter leaned against the fireplace, having never come further into the room. “Disposed how?”

“Considering each other in an intimate manner.”

Confusion was writ on Potter’s face. “I thought you said this was about arranged marriages.”

Draco couldn’t keep looking at Potter while he explained this. “Imagine your parents said you had to marry someone and have heirs with them. You’d definitely wonder what it would be like, sleeping together. And if you’d agreed to it—under pressure, yes, but still agreed—you wouldn’t be saying no.”

“You wouldn’t be saying yes, either,” Potter pointed out.

“Not quite like you’re used to, no.” Potter’s jaw clenched, and Draco rushed to explain himself. “I don’t agree with it. I’ve avoided the same thing happening to myself. But the fact remains, that room was designed to help two nervous people who had sex on their minds facilitate their union.” This was the hardest part, but Draco forced himself to continue. “There is a component in the magic, whether to keep the spells legal or because the Dohertys actually cared about their children, that would stop the spells from functioning if one of them truly objected. It’s a push, but not a shove.”

Potter was silent for such a long time that Draco worried he’d gone too far. Finally, he spoke in a tired voice.

“You’re saying that room picked up on something between us and… kickstarted it?”

“Yes,” Draco confirmed.

Sighing deeply, Potter finally pushed off the wall and made his way to the chaise, sharing the piece of furniture with Draco but staying on the other end.

“I suppose I can’t deny it.”

Draco had assumed that Potter _would_ deny it; he’d also been prepared to feel hurt by that. But if Potter accepted how the room worked, Draco couldn’t try to excuse it, to say the magic malfunctioned and therefore deny his own attraction. He fumbled for something to say.

“It could be something very subconscious, something you’d never even considered—”

“Oh, I’d considered it.”

Draco was stunned. Potter glanced up at him, green eyes piercing. “Hadn’t you?”

“I…” _In hindsight? Yes, I was drawn to you. But to consider it a real chance?_

“No,” Draco answered honestly. Potter drew back, and Draco clarified his words. “You and I seem so out of the realm of possibility. I’ve enjoyed our friendship, tentative as it’s been, and I can see the casual flirting for what it is, but the concept of us in a relationship… my mind could never dare to dream that up.” _Not before, at least. Now my mind wants to dream of it desperately._

“I didn’t mean I thought we could be _boyfriends,_ ” Potter said, an edge to his voice. “Just that I liked being around you, liked seeing you. I’m not in love with you or something.”

Draco stiffened. “I’m not in love with you, either,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Alright then.”

“Alright.”

They regarded each other warily. “That’s it, then?” Potter asked at last. “Can you disable those spells?”

“Already done,” Draco assured him.

After yet another stretch of interminable silence, Draco couldn’t take it anymore. “Do you want me to leave now? And not come back, I mean. Now that I’ve fixed that room.”

“I already told you no.” Potter kicked his feet stubbornly against the leg of the chaise. “I like you being here.”

Draco couldn’t help but admire Potter for his honesty. “Yes, and now that you’ve been forced to admit just how much you like it, I thought I’d give you an out.”

“Don’t martyr yourself, Malfoy. You like being here, too. You don’t seem to have much else going on.”

Draco scoffed. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black! You never even see those Gryffindor chums of yours anymore, do you?”

Potter bristled. “How is that your business?”

“I don’t know, it seemed like you wanted to be _friends!_ ”

“So do you!”

“Fine, then! We’re friends!”

“We’re _just_ friends!”

They were leaning towards each other as their voices raised. Draco caught himself and laughed. “Are we really yelling at each other about being friends? This is absurd.”

“Oh, I dunno. Seems like us. I was actually wondering when one of us would snap.”

Draco couldn't feel hurt by that statement as Potter delivered it with a wry smile. Sighing, he placed his hand primly in his lap. “So it’s agreed then. We try to put this behind us.”

“Yeah. We’ll just… go on as we had been.” Potter nodded, his decisive nod not matched by the turmoil in his eyes.

Draco nodded as well, knowing deep down that it was easier said than done.

_—————_

Over the years, Draco had become very good at self-deception. It was sometimes easier to ignore difficult things than deal with them, after all. Sometimes he thought ‘evasion’ should be right up there with ‘cunning’ and ‘resourceful’ in the Slytherin description that every first-year learned.

Potter had less of an excuse, being a headstrong Gryffindor. To his credit, he had addressed the problem of leaving the room with the spells intact, and had been honest about finding Draco… tempting, in a way. But his insistence that they try to continue as they had been, developing friendship and all, was classic Slytherin behaviour, as far as Draco was concerned.

It was foolish, Draco felt, but he also couldn’t resist. Spending time in Inishtrahull had turned out to be the bright spot of his year—of the past few years, really. If Potter wanted to play at friends, then Draco could give it a go.

They picked up where they left off, with the last of the guest bedrooms. Neither took a second look at the door to the rose room when they passed by, choosing to immerse themselves in cleaning instead. Draco was pleased that their conversation was less stilted than that first day back after the… incident, even if it wasn’t as free-flowing as before.

Still, the palpable difference in their interaction highlighted how much less anxious Draco had become while spending time with Potter; now with the uneasiness between them, Draco found himself hyper-aware of everything. He held himself stiffly, cracking his neck to work out the kinks he developed, and went silent more often, sometimes thinking of words and phrases to distract himself from Potter’s nearness.

_How can I concentrate on the house when he’s standing right next to me, when I can feel his warmth? I know what he looks like when he’s coming inside me._

Every time he paused to consider what happened between him and Potter, he began to tremble nervously. Potter seemed to take this for shyness, or even fear, because he overcompensated during these silences, filling them with random anecdotes about his day. Several of these stories involved Weasley; Draco gathered that Potter had been making more of an effort to visit his real friends.

“Then he wouldn’t stop making bird noises! I thought Andromeda was going to throw me out.” Potter finished his tale of how he re-enacted the seagull episode for his godson, and Draco laughed.

“He sounds adorable,” Draco replied, then cringed. He shouldn’t be commenting on family that had been banished by his own; that was a bit gauche.

“Yeah, he’s a good kid,” Potter answered. “I can’t wait to have this place all ready to go, I think he’ll like coming out here to play.”

“That’s good. You’re not really a loner, Potter, no matter how much you’ve been trying to prove otherwise by spending so much time out here.”

Potter paused, his wand hovering over a window sash he’d been dusting off. Draco wondered if he’d gone too far.

“I’m not really alone out here, though,” Potter said at last. “I have you.”

“I… yes, I suppose you have me.” _Have me._ That sounded suggestive now, and Draco shuddered involuntarily.

Potter noticed, and—to Draco’s shock—licked his lips.

They both turned abruptly back to their work. “Speaking of, when’s the last time _you_ went out, did something fun?” Potter asked him. Draco wracked his brain.

“I saw my mother this weekend.”

“Does that count as fun?” Potter teased.

“Oh, hush. I had a lovely dinner, then an even lovelier wine, then some _more_ wine, and then I managed to tune her out for the most part.”

“I always thought your mum and you were close,” Potter ventured. “You seem to want to avoid her now.” He didn’t ask why, but the question was implied.

A couple of weeks ago, Draco wouldn’t have minded answering it—now talking about his mother’s desire to arrange an advantageous match for him was a very thorny topic, considering how pure-blood arranged marriage customs had affected he and Potter. “She wants me to settle down,” Draco said vaguely.

“Is that something you want?” He wasn’t looking directly at Draco, but he seemed very interested in the answer. _Quite Slytherin again, Potter._

“I’m not sure,” Draco admitted. “Most people do, don’t they?”

“I suppose.”

Draco remembered how Potter had said he was monogamous at heart, like Draco himself, and suddenly found himself picturing he and Potter holding hands. He brushed the vision away.

“You can stop worrying about me. Pansy and I have lunch scheduled tomorrow, as it happens.”

“Yeah, alright.” Potter tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile. Draco couldn’t help but be moved; even with the tension between them, Potter still cared. Perhaps they could truly be friends after all.

He hoped Pansy was actually available for lunch.

_—————_

The dining room of the restaurant was rather loud, filled with random conversations and the clink of silverware on plates. Pansy had obviously chosen this place because she wanted to talk to Draco in a place they wouldn’t be eavesdropped on, but where he wouldn’t make a scene. After all these years, he knew how her mind worked.

Unfortunately, she knew how his worked as well.

Even over a fairly brief Floo call, she had picked up on his agitation. He’d brushed it off, saying he just wanted to catch up, but nosy witch that she was, Pansy seemed determined to drag it out of him anyway. Her small, smug smile, her short answers leaving ample silence for Draco to squirm—he was growing more agitated by the minute. Finally, he couldn’t take anymore. He tossed his fork down and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed petulantly. “What?” he snapped. “What do you keep smiling about?”

“Oh, nothing.” Pansy smirked. “It’s just rather adorable, that’s all.”

“What’s adorable?”

“You, darling.”

“I assure you I am anything but,” Draco sneered, trying to appear as un-adorable as possible. Pansy simply giggled.

“I haven’t seen you this out of sorts since that barista in Paris gave you his number three times in a row.”

“I wanted my espresso! Not some Muggle’s number.”

“It’s so ridiculous the way you crave attention, but then you don’t know what to do with it. Come on, now. Tell Pansy who’s been trying to pull you.”

 _He’s already succeeded,_ Draco thought, and flushed pink. Pansy gasped, then howled with laughter, catching the attention of most of the restaurant.

“They already got in your trousers! Oh Draco, please tell me. I have to know.”

“Shhhh!” Draco waved at her desperately. “Be quiet!”

“Is it that tailor you keep visiting for ‘remeasuring?’ Is it Mme Saunier’s niece that always flutters her eyes at you? Is it…” She continued to name off every vaguely appealing person that Draco had interacted with in the last year, ending up with Theo, at which Draco was mortally offended.

“Have you _seen_ Theo’s hair these days? Don’t be absurd.”

“Well I don’t know who else it could be. Unless…” The gleam in her eye said she had been working up to this. “It’s Potter.”

As perfectly willing (and able) as Draco was to lie his way out of certain situations, he knew he couldn’t lie to Pansy. For one, she was his best friend.

Two, it had never worked on her.

He chose to feign ignorance. “Are you serious? Harry Potter? Can you imagine?” Her smirk told him that she could indeed imagine.

“You have been spending most of your time at his secret retreat.”

“That’s not a secret! I told you and Blaise all about it, address aside. And I think you can forgive him for not revealing that.” They had indeed wrested the information about Draco’s employer out of him, after Potter had given him permission.

Pansy sipped her martini—it was far too early in the day for that, as far as Draco was concerned—and regarded Draco with a considering look. “I suppose it is impolite to suggest you would lower yourself.”

“Lower?!” Draco bit out, suddenly ready to defend Potter, who hadn’t acted disgusted when he’d been coerced into touching Draco. Distressed by the occurrence, yes, but he’d been rather understanding, given the circumstances. “If anything, he would be—“

“I knew it!” Pansy crowed, and Draco grimaced, well aware he’d given himself away.

“Settle down,” he grumbled. “People will hear you.”

“Tell me _everything,_ ” she demanded.

The only way out of this was to satiate her curiosity without revealing too much. “There’s nothing to tell. It happened once and now it’s out of our systems.”

“It was all that pent up tension from years of Quidditch, wasn’t it,” she snickered. Draco slid down in his seat and pouted.

“That wasn’t tension, that was loathing.”

“So what changed? Did he become unreasonably fit?”

Draco wasn’t about to reveal that he and Potter had been under the influence. For one, he couldn’t risk that getting out, as it didn’t look good for him. For another, Pansy was overprotective of him, and he wouldn’t be surprised if she sent Potter a Howler over it.

“He’s not bad-looking,” Draco said hesitantly. Pansy raised a sceptical brow, and he caved. “All right, yes, he’s fit. I’m not _that_ easy for a pretty face, though. It’s just the isolation. We’ve been working in close proximity for a while now.”

“So it was just the inevitable outcome of two handsome young men with keyed up libidos being cooped up together?”

“Exactly.” Draco took a sip of his own beverage (tea, he wasn’t a day-drinking heathen) and set the cup down with a decisive _clank._ “And it won’t happen again.”

“Whyever not?” Pansy asked. “It’s an interesting match.”

Draco blinked in confusion. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I didn’t hear you right. Harry Potter and I? A match? Didn’t you try to—” Draco cut himself off, unwilling to bring up the past, but Pansy caught his meaning and shrugged.

“I’ve been to therapy, I know I was acting out of fear and ignorance, and a heaping sense of self-loathing I turned outward against others.”

Draco squirmed in his seat; he always tried to tune Pansy out when she talked about her therapy experience. It always ended with her sliding a business card for her Mind Healer into his pocket.

“It sounds as if the two of you were getting on quite well,” Pansy continued. “I assume he’s changed since school, same as all of us.”

He thought of Potter’s quiet pleasure when Draco complimented his cooking, his glee when he learned a new spell for the house. Perhaps these things had always been a part of Potter’s personality, and Draco hadn’t been in a position to notice. His avoidant tendencies clashed with Draco’s perception of him as a brash fool, but that was a one-dimensional impression from their school days. He was fairly certain Potter hadn’t been anywhere near a Mind Healer, though.

“He’s changed,” Draco said at last. “However, I’m not sure he’s dealt with his issues in the same way you have. And in any case, the job is almost done.”

Pansy smiled sympathetically. “Maybe it’s for the best,” she sighed. “You haven’t dealt with your own issues, I doubt you could deal with his.”

“I don’t have issues,” Draco protested half-heartedly. Pansy patted his hand gently.

“Of course you don’t.”

_—————_

When Draco next showed up at Inisview, he couldn’t get Pansy’s words out of his mind. _Pent up years of tension. Unreasonably fit._ He would need to concentrate twice as hard today to avoid staring at Potter and thinking about his passionate kisses.

It was time to move to the second floor, which consisted of a master suite nearly the size as all the first floor bedrooms combined, and a large balcony. This would have been where the master and mistress of the house, or occasionally very important guests, slept.

This room was in slightly better shape than the others, having been treated with the most potent spells. Most of the furniture was gone, but there was still dust to be swept away and linens to be cleaned, and Draco went straight to work. Potter was less industrious, stopping often to catch a breath of fresh air out on the balcony.

When lunch time came around, Potter appeared with a small smile. “I have a picnic for us,” he offered. “I felt like cooking last night.”

Draco couldn’t refuse Potter’s cooking, so he quickly obliged and followed him downstairs, where Potter put the kettle on. But as they were packing the basket, a low rumble echoed around the house, quickly succeeded by the sound of pouring rain.

“Guess that cancels the picnic,” Draco said dolefully, staring out the kitchen window. He turned to find Potter pulling the blanket back out of the basket. “What are you doing?”

“We’ll just have in the parlour!” Potter answered cheerfully, already heading in that direction. He spread the blanket out on the carpet and began setting out delicious looking treats. Draco trailed behind him and watched with amusement.

“I wasn’t aware you were such a child, Potter.” Draco nevertheless sat down and reached greedily for what appeared to be a shepherd's pie. It was predictably tasty, and Draco finished it off with an involuntary moan.

“Sweet Circe, Potter. You do know how to cook.” Draco even licked his fingers one by one, before opening his eyes and noticing Potter watching him with a glazed-over stare. It occurred to Draco how suggestive he was being, and he quickly turned towards the side dishes. “I, er, still haven’t borrowed that cookbook from you.”

“Cookbook? Oh! Right!” Potter shook himself free of whatever trance he was in, and poured himself another cup of tea. “I’ll bring that by for you.”

As they tucked into dessert (a lovely pudding), Potter lit the fire. “This is cosy, isn’t it?” he remarked.

Draco nodded. “Quite nice, actually.”

“How many more days of work do you think we have ahead of us?”

“A week maybe?” Draco guessed. “Or not even that. I’d estimate one more day on the master bedroom, then a day on the roof shoring up all the protective spells, and a day in the cellar. There may be a few loose ends but I think that’s it.”

“It’s gone so much faster than I expected,” Potter said, seemingly forlorn.

“You’re a quick study,” Draco admitted. “We’ve worked well together. I daresay you’ll be able to cast the maintenance spells yourself from here on out.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Potter glanced at the basket, and pulled out a small cloth-wrapped bundle. “Don’t forget the biscuits.”

“Biscuits _and_ pudding? You spoil me, Potter.” Draco took a biscuit from Potter’s hands and their fingers brushed. Draco’s hand twitched; Potter blushed.

Draco froze, then stuffed the whole biscuit into his mouth.

“F’ rely gud!” he mumbled. “Gngr?” Potter simply stared, eyes wide as an owl’s. Draco managed to swallow after a full minute of chewing.

“It’s good. Ginger?” he repeated.

Potter nodded shakily, and rose to his feet. “Back to the bedroom?” he asked, then flushed again.

 _That sounds so provocative,_ Draco thought. _Provocative, provocative._ He hurried to catch up to Potter, and they both tried to exit the parlour simultaneously, getting stuck in the doorway.

“Sorry!” Draco apologised and backed up. Unfortunately, Potter did as well, and trod on Draco’s feet. He tripped and stumbled backwards, and Potter caught him, then immediately let go, although they were still pressed against one another.

“Climate spells,” Potter said in a rush. “I mean, that’s what we should do next, right? Especially since it’s raining. Or maybe we should have focused on the roof first. You don’t think there will be a leak anywhere, do you? Everything seemed pretty stable when I bought the place.”

Draco tried to say, ‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ but only succeeded in “I’m—” before Potter continued.

“Then again, I didn’t have a thorough look around. Guess that’s why I was so eager to hire you, right?” He laughed nervously while Draco attempted to interrupt again. Potter’s eyes flicked almost imperceptibly to Draco’s mouth. “Didn’t know what I’d got myself into. It’s really come along, hasn’t it?”

Draco kissed him.

It wasn’t a conscious decision. Rather, all that talk of tension coupled with their proximity and frankly the need to just _shut Potter up_ all coalesced into one singular moment, and Draco found his lips pressed against Potter’s unresisting ones. For his part, Draco immediately backed away—they already had consent issues dangling between them—but Potter leaned forward and the kiss continued with both their participation.

Immediately Draco was overwhelmed with how warm Potter was, how gentle his kiss could be without strange sex dust flying through the air.

In the blink of an eye, they were softly opening their mouths against each other, inviting tongues to join, then just a bit of teeth on a plump lower lip—

And then they both sprang back from each other as if burned.

Panting, Potter raised a hand to touch his mouth, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Draco panicked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—Merlin, I’m sorry.”

Potter nodded slowly. “I know. I mean, we’ve already… yeah. But we shouldn't. I… what?” He seemed to be searching for the right words to say.

_The right words to let me down gently, I’m sure._

Draco sifted through his desperately racing thoughts and seized on the first one that surfaced. “Blaise always goes on strange tangents. I’ve experience in shutting him up.”

That wasn’t the right thing to say. Potter dropped his hand and crossed his arms. “I hope that’s not how you shut Blaise up.” He almost sounded jealous, but Draco didn’t dare hope for that.

“No, I mean—ugh. I’m not sure what I mean.” Draco ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Can we just forget about that? Like everything else?”

Potter looked as if he were going to argue, but he nodded grudgingly instead. “Yeah.”

Draco let out the breath he was holding. “Alright.” He looked over his shoulder at the Floo in the parlour, his heart racing. He needed to be anywhere else. “Why don’t you try your own hand at the climate spells. “I’ll be back to check your work.”

“What? Wait!”

But Draco was already throwing powder into the fireplace.


	5. Chapter 5

“Hello!” Draco said brightly when he arrived the next morning. “The rain seems to have stopped.”

Potter glanced up from parchment he was writing on and gave Draco a funny look. “You’re back.”

“Of course I am. We’re in the home stretch, after all.”

Quill frozen in the air, Potter narrowed his eyes at Draco, who smiled pleasantly as if nothing was amiss. It seemed as if Potter was going to speak, but he noticed ink dripping onto his letter and quickly began dabbing at it. Draco took the opportunity to breeze past him and up the stairs.

By the time Potter joined him in the master bedroom, Draco was already busying himself with checking over the climate spells. Potter had taken a crack at them as Draco suggested before fleeing, and they were mostly set, with only a few minor fixes to be made. He could feel Potter staring at him, but he didn’t bring up the kiss.

But just because Draco wasn’t talking about the kiss didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about it. He had been thinking about it non-stop since his Floo spat him out into his own flat. There had been no excuse for it. It was a terrible idea.

He ached to do it again.

Maybe there truly was no way to move on from his and Potter’s pollen-induced lovemaking. They would forever dance around each other, knowing what it felt like to touch, to feel, and never experience it again. Draco had given up his now half-hearted attempts to put it out of mind, and if Potter’s behaviour was anything to go by, he’d given up too. In fact, he was looking at Draco with both resignation and longing.

Draco flung the balcony door wide open, and the late morning air rushed in around them, ruffling Potter’s messy hair. _Merlin help me, that’s sexy._ Draco cleared his throat.

“Would you like to handle the draperies? I have some protection spells to cast on the railings outside.”

Potter headed to the doors and inspected the finely made linen curtains. “What kind of protection spells?”

“Very gentle wards that will stop anyone from falling off. They’re especially useful with small children around,” Draco added, thinking of his little cousin.

Potter nodded gratefully. “That’s considerate of you.”

“I know you want this home to be a safe haven.” Draco headed outside, looking forward to the ocean view. He brushed past Potter as he went, feeling for a moment the lightest touch on his shoulder.

_I must be imagining things._

The salt air was invigorating, and the light wards went up easily. At one point Draco heard music drifting out from the house. It was too faint to make out at first, but eventually he figured out that it was one of the newer stations on the Wireless. Muggle pop music had become all the rage lately, and a number of wizarding groups tried to emulate the sound.

“Is this the kind of music you enjoy?” he asked Potter when he returned inside.

“I’m not sure yet,” Potter admitted with a laugh. “I never had much time for music. I bought a Wireless for the house this weekend, thought I’d finally get it set up.”

“It’s certainly modern,” Draco said. He wasn’t sure what to make of it himself.

“ _Modern._ ” Harry shook his head in amusement. “And what do you listen to? Wait, let me guess. Opera.”

Draco sniffed. “Occasionally. There are a number of wizarding operas even a philistine like you could appreciate, stories about dragon slaying and the like.”

“Maybe I’ll check those out.”

“Why the sudden interest in music?”

Potter turned the Wireless down until it was barely audible. “I dunno. Every magical household I’ve ever been in has one of these, so I figured it would help complete the place. I’m going to have people over soon.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I was writing some invitations when you got here, actually.”

“Oh? For what?”

“For a dinner here, like you suggested.” Potter leaned against the wall. “I guess I could just call people up, or tell them in person, but it felt right.”

“I’m pleased you took my advice.” Thinking about Potter hosting a dinner at Inisview, from which Draco would likely be excluded, was bittersweet. “I’m sure it will be a success.”

“I was thinking you could help out,” Potter said, staring at his feet.

“Me?” Draco froze in the middle of the room. “But I—I can’t cook.”

“You said you wanted to learn.” Potter grinned shakily. “You can’t be worse than Hermione. Last time I was over to her and Ron’s place, everything was burnt.”

It was a tempting offer. All the hard work that had gone into the house was to make it a welcoming place, after all. But the mention of Weasley and Granger reminded Draco that he would be the odd one out in any gathering of Potter’s friends. He may have put a lot of effort into this project, but at the end of the day, it was only a job. He wasn’t one of them.

Then there was the matter of the unmentioned kiss. Did Draco really want to put himself into close proximity with Potter, hovering over a stove together? Did he expect to be able to resist that temptation?

The longer Draco took to answer, the more stone-faced Potter became. “Fine, then,” he bit out at last. “Forget I asked.”

As if Draco could do that. “I didn’t say no,” he answered, even as his brain was screaming at him to say just that. His dick was screaming the opposite (and truthfully, his heart was, too.)

“You didn’t say yes, either,” Potter pointed out. He pushed off the wall and approached Draco, who suddenly felt very exposed, standing in the middle of a room with very little furniture. “This place is what it is because of you. I think it’s only fair you get to enjoy it.”

 _Of course._ Potter was only being a classic Gryffindor. “I don’t need your pity,” Draco ground out. “Don’t feel as if you have to include me. You are paying me, you know.”

“Pity?” Potter sounded scandalised. “I was trying to be nice!”

“Well don’t!”

“I won’t!”

They were definitely in each other’s personal space now, on the edge of fight or flight. _Or fuck._

Potter was breathing hard. “You’re still an arse.”

“And you’re still a hero.” Draco looked to the door, calculating his escape, then back to Potter. “Do you honestly think it’s a good idea to invite me?”

“Well, I had, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe you can’t help but be a prick.”

Oh. Potter thought Draco was refusing on grounds of still being an elitist snob. “That’s not what I meant,” Draco explained. “I can play nice with your friends. I just didn’t think it was my place.” He swallowed and glanced back at the door. “Among other things.”

“I thought we weren’t talking about the other things,” Potter grumbled.

All those _other things_ were running on a loop in Draco’s mind, pictures that he couldn’t blink away. “Potter,” he uttered, then trailed off, unsure of what he meant to say. He certainly couldn’t voice the overwhelming sense of need that washed over him when he turned back and locked eyes with the man in front of him.

“Potter,” he said once more, a bit helplessly. And yet again: Potter was watching his lips as he spoke.

Draco shuddered and broke away, making for the door.

He never got there; a strong hand caught his wrist and spun him around. Draco registered the feel of the wall against his back, then the heat of Potter’s body pressed along his. He opened his mouth in a shocked gasp, and Potter was there, too, a millimetre away from a kiss.

He couldn’t help it—Draco whimpered.

It didn’t matter who closed the distance first (and Draco couldn’t say for sure). What mattered is that he and Potter were kissing, _again._ All the distractions, all the talking to himself, all the pacing of his room, none of it had been able to drive the memories away, and here he was again. Potter was leaning on him, their hips coming into contact, and Draco groaned. He’d never become hard so fast in his life.

As sudden as the kiss had begun, it ended, and Potter was staring at Draco wildly, his breath coming in harsh pants. “I’m sorry,” he said, letting go of Draco’s wrist. “I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that.”

“Circe’s sake, Potter, I’m not delicate,” Draco growled, and leaned back in. _If this is happening, then I’m making the most of it,_ he decided, throwing caution to the wind. The press of their hips together, and the friction between them as Draco realised Potter was just as hard as him, seemed to override any lingering objections that Potter still had, and they began kissing frantically.

As satisfying as it was to finally be snogging Potter again, there was an undercurrent of desperation. Draco found he missed the softer kisses of their encounter in the room, and then felt so ashamed that he had to stop, if only for a moment. He made a show of catching his breath, then tipped Potter’s chin up for another kiss. Potter seemed distracted, and a moment later Draco found out why, as he felt Potter grip his cock through his trousers.

“Oh, fuck,” he murmured into Potter’s mouth. “Are you sure?” Potter didn’t answer, just started stroking Draco’s erection. Draco allowed himself a minute to enjoy it, then moved to return the favour. Potter apparently had other ideas, and Draco found his wrist pinned again.

 _Damn, that’s so hot._ Draco was glad that his obvious enthusiasm had got through to Potter, because he now seemed comfortable manhandling Draco, and it was an immense turn on. Draco bucked his hips up into the pressure, letting every thought about how he was going to hate himself in an hour for allowing this to happen, for allowing he and Potter to throw away their friendship, vanish to the back of his mind.

His performance would have shamed even his teenage self; in under two minutes, Draco was coming in his pants.

As he leaned back against the wall, trying to catch his breath for real this time, he felt a tentative pull at his zipper. Potter was peeling his trousers away and _looking_ at the mess he had made with hungry eyes. It was almost enough to get Draco hard again, right away.

“Y—your turn,” Draco stammered. Potter let go of Draco’s wrist and leaned away, obviously expecting a tug as well. But Draco wasn’t going to let that be the end of things; if this was all he got from Potter, he was going for broke.

Draco leaned in and nipped at Potter’s lip. “Put your hands on the wall,” he instructed. Potter raised a brow but did as he was told. Draco gave him one more soft kiss…

… and slid down the wall to his knees.

Potter’s gasp of surprise echoed above as Draco wrestled with his zipper. Potter’s cock immediately sprung out, and Draco wasted no time taking the head gently in his mouth. At first, he simply let it rest on his tongue, appreciating the weight of it. Then Potter’s hips jerked, and Draco slid his mouth about halfway down the shaft.

He wasn’t adept at deep-throating, but he didn’t think Potter minded, as his continuous moaning indicated he was enjoying Draco’s movements well enough. He sucked in on each upstroke, and applied generous pressure with his tongue, until Potter was mindlessly thrusting. Potter kept his hands on the wall, though, and didn’t choke Draco, which he appreciated. He added his own hand to the base of Potter’s cock, steadying him.

Draco briefly mourned the fact that he couldn’t get to Potter’s balls, not with his trousers still open only just enough to expose his prick. He had enough to occupy him for the moment, though, both stroking the spit-slick shaft with his right hand and bobbing his head up and down. He thought of taking himself in hand, but he wasn’t particularly ambidextrous, and this moment was all about Potter.

Draco looked up to see Potter’s blissed out expression, then quickly shut his eyes. He didn’t think he could bear to actually look at Potter while he did this, because he’d never forget the sight, and wouldn’t that make things even worse. They were probably never going to speak to each other again, not after this.

Pushing that thought away, Draco doubled his efforts, and soon Potter’s legs were shaking as he groaned his way through what sounded like a spectacular orgasm. Draco worked him through it, not spilling a drop, then sat back on his heels.

The silence in the room was deafening, cut only by the sound of Potter pulling his zip back up. Draco’s own trousers were sliding down, exposing his arse, and he felt uncomfortably naked. As soon as Potter gave him some space, he shot to his feet and yanked them back up.

The tenuous uncertainty of the moment was all tangled up with Draco’s desire. Should he kiss Potter? Thank him? Run away? Laugh it off? A million options, none with a good outcome. Draco wasn’t even sure what a good outcome would be. A return to the status quo was unthinkable; proceeding forward with… whatever this was equally so.

Potter’s words from their previous discussion, after they’d fucked, echoed in Draco’s mind.

_I liked being around you, liked seeing you. I’m not in love with you or something._

Well, maybe Draco was _something._ Maybe he did want more. He knew he couldn’t have it, and as predicted, it stung more now than ever.

Potter opened his mouth to speak. Irrationally worried that Potter could tell what he was thinking, Draco cut him off.

“Don’t worry. I know you don’t want to be _boyfriends._ ”

Draco spun around and moved through the door, making his way through the hallway and down to the ground floor. He’d fucked everything up, and there was no reason to stay. Where was his coat? Had he thrown it over a chair in the parlour? Look at him, tossing clothing around like a peasant when there was a perfectly good coat rack—

“Malfoy.”

Draco froze, then took a deep breath and turned to face Potter.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Potter said. Draco grit his teeth and nodded.

“I know. But it seems we can’t help ourselves, so… I’ll go. You’ll be fine with the rest of it, and if you’re not I can recommend several people.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Potter approached him cautiously, then gestured to the chaise. “Can we sit down?” He sat down himself without waiting for Draco to agree, then looked up expectantly.

Draco hesitated, then joined him.

“So,” Potter said.

“So.” Draco twiddled his thumbs.

Potter scrunched his nose, seemingly gathering courage for what he was about to say. Draco assumed he as about to be told off.

“I thought you said you didn’t want me,” is what Potter actually said, a wounded tone in his voice.

Draco gaped at him before answering, “What part of your cock in my mouth told you that?”

“ _You_ told me that! When we were discussing how the rose room worked! I said I’d considered it, and you said you hadn’t!”

Frantically replaying that conversation to himself, Draco winced. “I meant I wasn’t harbouring secret, romantic intentions towards you.” Potter looked dubious.

“I did think you were fit,” Draco reassured him, remembering Blaise and Pansy’s comments and how hard he’d tried to put them out of mind.

“But you would have never tried it on with me?” Potter asked, seeking clarification.

“No.”

Potter seemed upset at his answer. “What is this really about?” Draco demanded. “It can’t just be your ego.”

“I don’t want you to want me just because of what happened in that room!”

 _Oh._ Potter was worried that there was still coercion involved. Draco took a very deep breath. “Potter,” he said, quite deliberately. “I can promise you that whatever was revealed by that… incident, it has only illuminated things for me, not changed my mind.”

“Are you sure? There’s no… lingering effects or anything?”

Draco searched for a way to explain things. “What if someone told you there was a tree that grew treacle tarts like fruit. Would you want one in your yard?”

“I think I’ve learned to bake a pretty good one,” Potter said wryly.

“You have,” Draco agreed. “That’s not the point. Think back to before that. Would you want the tree?”

“Well, sure.”

“And before, did you think about treacle trees, about how much you wanted one in your yard?”

“Of course not, they don’t exist. Malfoy, what is the point of this?”

“You don’t think about them because they’re impossible. Well, I didn't think of us because that was as impossible to me as a tree full of treacle tarts. I was truly enjoying your company, and I got pleasure out of your strange awkward flirting, but how could I conceive of a day when Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy started snogging?”

“So let me get this straight,” Potter said thoughtfully. “You liked being around me, liked the flirting, thought I was fit, but didn’t want more because you didn’t think there could be more? That’s some mental gymnastics, Malfoy.”

“I’m good at those,” Draco admitted. “I’m also very good at not thinking about stressful things, or I was until you popped back into my life.”

“Yeah, that’s part of the problem,” Harry grumbled. Draco tilted his head in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“ _You_ didn’t think about us together because it was too weird to consider. And you’re not wrong about that, it is weird, even while it’s happening. But that’s not why _I_ held back.”

“Harry Potter isn’t afraid of a little weirdness, I’m sure.” Potter smiled faintly at that. “But,” Draco continued, “you never pushed it further. If not for my reasons, then why?”

“Because…” Potter made a noise of frustration. “Because for all I know, you’re still _Malfoy!_ ”

“That is my name, yes,” Draco said, perplexed.

With a huff, Potter leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and stared into the unlit fireplace.

“You know why I left the Aurors?” he said at last.

Draco recalled that conversation. “You said it was like things hadn’t changed.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, that’s part of it. But being an Auror required a lot of judgement. Not just decision making, but judging people. I know we have the Wizengamot and a trial system, and that it wasn’t my job, but assuming everyone was guilty of terrible things was taking a toll on me. I want to be a forgiving person.” His expression hardened. “And I know forgiveness is supposed to be for me, to let go of anger, but I can’t help it. In my book, people have to try, to _want_ to be forgiven.”

With a sinking feeling, Draco saw where this was going. “And you don't think I’ve tried, is that it?”

“I don't know if you want it.”

Twisting the hem of his shirt back and forth— _oh, that’s going to wrinkle_ —Draco managed to say, “I would think that it’s obvious I’ve changed. We couldn’t be friends if I hadn’t.”

“How did you realise you wanted to change, though? What made you want to be better?” Potter grimaced, then added, “From what I can tell, after the war you holed yourself up in the Manor, then legged it to France as soon as you could, still on your mum’s coattails.”

Draco was stung. He didn’t know Potter still thought of him that way. “But,” Potter continued, “then you show up here, telling me how you want to make your own way, and it seems like you’re being honest with me. I’ll admit that I was curious, and I’ll also admit I thought it was too good to be true. But you _are_ trying to be your own man aren't you?”

“I am, yes.”

“Then that’s the question. What kind of man are you trying to be?”

 _Wait,_ this _is what has been bothering him?_

This went far beyond the forced physical encounter between them. From what Draco could tell, Potter had been holding onto these questions for some time. “I’m not sure what to tell you,” he said cautiously. “That I don’t want to be beholden to my mother and my old way of life? That’s true.”

“That’s for you, though. Why didn't you ever apologise to anyone?”

That was a loaded question. “I couldn't bring myself to.”

“Because you don't mean it?” Potter asked, his voice full of disappointment.

Cut to the quick, Draco lashed out. “Because I _know_ what I did was wrong! And thinking about it, I just… I can’t face it. It drags me down.”

“Sounds like you’re scared.”

“You don't know how it was,” Draco hissed.

“ _I_ don't know?!—”

“I don’t mean _during,_ I mean after. When I had nothing to do but think. I was isolated and the weight of the past two years… I knew if I didn't keep moving, it would swallow me whole. So I threw myself into restoring the Manor and I never looked back. Otherwise, I would have laid awake every night regretting my very existence.”

“You think it didn't keep me up at night? Not just the things I did, but the things I could have done, the people I could have saved.”

“But you did save them, you saved all of us. Whereas I tried to kill someone.” Hanging his head in shame, Draco almost missed Potter’s quiet response.

“I did kill someone.”

Draco rather thought that was semantics; everyone knew Voldemort's spell had backfired on himself. Potter had to know that, right? One look at his face told Draco that was not the case.

“Oh, Harry,” Draco said, quite deliberately. “You’ve never killed anyone. You've never even come close to killing anyone.”

But even as Draco said that, he knew it wasn't true. He could still see the blood pooling around him, if he closed his eyes.

It was obvious that Potter was thinking of the same moment in time. “I came close to killing you,” he whispered.

“It’s in the past,” Draco assured him. “It didn’t even scar.” He’d let go of his initial resentment quickly, because dwelling on Potter’s actions only served as a reminder that in his own fear and desperation, Draco’s first instinct had been to reach for an Unforgivable.

“I remember,” Potter said, blushing, and Draco remembered that Potter _had_ seen him naked. “And I'm so grateful to Snape for saving you. For a lot of things, of course. At the time I was just so full of anger, I didn’t even see how lucky I was that he came for you, or how he was protecting both of us, in his own way.”

“Severus was a complicated person.”

“But he was kind to you?” Potter asked.

“In his own fashion. He couldn’t be outwardly caring, but… he did take the Unbreakable Vow to protect me. There was no strategy in that, no hidden motive. He only didn’t want to see me hurt.” Recalling Severus took Draco down a path of memories he tried not to tread, but it also seemed ungrateful to avoid speaking of him. “There were plenty of times he stepped in on my behalf after that. He made things… bearable at least. I still don’t know why; we had no family ties and I wasn’t particularly courteous to him, in sixth year at least. I was too busy being a petulant teenager to notice how he protected me. It’s something I regret, not being able to thank him.”

“I regret that, too. He’ll never know that I found out just how brave he really was.” Potter inhaled shakily. “There are so many people I wish I could talk to again, to thank. So many unfinished conversations.”

Draco twitched; this soul-searching was making him anxious. “And don't you see, Potter? Why I choose to move forward, to not dwell on the past? It certainly hasn't helped you, wallowing in whatever guilt you've invented for yourself.”

“You’re _not_ moving, though,” Potter accused. “You’re ignoring it. We’ve been acting like mates, but we’ve never even discussed the seven years we were at each other’s throats. That’s not healthy, not for you, and not for any sort of relationship we could have had.”

 _Could have had._ Draco swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I am sorry, Potter. I’m sorry I hurt you. And not because that’s what you want to hear, or because I think I’ll get something out of it. I was a bully who believed that he deserved the world simply for being born.” With every word, Draco came to realise that he truly meant what he was saying, even as it filled him with a dull ache. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he repeated.

“That… that means a lot.” It was obvious that Potter had been affected by Draco’s words. “I think I suspected that, really, but it’s good to hear.”

“I should have said it before,” Draco murmured, his gaze fixed on the floor.

“And I guess… we hurt each other, over the years.” Waving a hand, Potter cut off Draco’s objection. “I don’t want to get into a contest over who was worse. But it’s one thing to forgive you for myself. I can’t forgive you on behalf of Ron, or Hermione, or Luna, or Neville…” he trailed off, seemingly realising just how long the list of his mates that Draco had wronged over the years really was.

Draco nodded miserably. “I see what you mean.” He and Potter’s friendship—to say nothing of anything else—really had been doomed from the start, hadn’t it? And it was all Draco’s fault.

“Could you say this to them, too?” Potter pressed. “Could you be accountable?”

“You want me to apologise to… to everyone?” Potter nodded eagerly. “I could… I could write them, I suppose. I don’t know when I would see any of them.”

“At dinner! I told you, you’re invited.”

“That’s a terrible idea,” Draco stated without thinking. He glanced up to see Potter frowning. “I thought you wanted a nice evening, not a row.”

“It won’t be a row. They know you’re here. I may have… well.” Potter bit his lip before continuing. “I may have asked Hermione if she’d think I was an awful person if I forgave you, and she said it would be healthy for everyone. And Hermione generally gets her way.”

“Oh.” Stunned, Draco sat back and considered. “If you think it won’t go tits up.”

Deep down— _very_ deep down, beneath endless layers of sarcasm and evasiveness—Draco knew that he couldn’t avoid the cruelty he’d visited on people forever. The real question was: could he face it in front of Potter and his Gryffindor chums?

“Promise you’ll protect me if the hexes start flying? I’ll be a snake in the lion’s den.”

“Of course.”

Before he could change his mind, Draco stiffly nodded his agreement.

With obvious relief, Potter grinned. “You know,” he offered, “if it would make you more comfortable, you can invite a friend or two. That dining room table is massive.”

“You want an excuse to make more tarts.”

“I never need an excuse to make tarts.”

Already, things felt more comfortable between them. But they hadn’t answered the real question. Cautiously, Draco enquired, “And if this dinner goes well, then what?”

“Well, I suppose then we’re friends for real, Malfoy.”

“Right. Friends.” Draco tried to smile. It was all he deserved, after all.

Potter fixed him with a knowing stare. “But you want more?”

“I don’t know what I want,” Draco admitted. “I do want our friendship back, the way it was growing. But I also can’t deny myself when it comes to you, it would seem.”

“I can’t either,” Potter admitted. “I only wish we could have had this conversation without a load of sexed-up plants making us fuck. I worry that it’s wrong somehow, for us to start something after that. We didn’t choose our first time together.”

“I wish things had been different, too. And if we weren’t already interested at least somewhat, I’d agree with you. But…” Draco sat up straighter and braced himself for rejection. “I think it’s worse to let that ruin what we _could_ have.”

“Are you being brave?” Potter teased. “That’s very Gryffindor of you.”

“Don’t make me regret it,” Draco grumbled.

Slowly, Potter placed a hand on the chaise beside Draco, not quite touching, but an invitation nonetheless.“Let’s see how things go. We’ve addressed some of my concerns, at least. And,” he added, with a small laugh, “we are absolute failures at resisting each other.”

A seed of hope suddenly bloomed in Draco’s heart. He tentatively placed his own hand over Potter’s, and sighed when warm fingers grasped his own. “I think that’s a good plan, Potter.”

Fingers squeezed his own, and Draco smiled. He was rewarded with a blinding one in return.

“If you’re going to be my friend, maybe you should call me Harry.”


	6. Chapter 6

Inisview already smelled amazing when Draco arrived the day of Potter’s dinner. The scent of roast chicken wafted down the hallway, and his mouth watered.

_Perhaps everyone will be too occupied with the feast that Potter is no doubt preparing to bother hexing me._

As he hung his coat on the rack, Draco checked the spells in the foyer one last time. His coat and shoes disappeared into thin air, ready for him when he left (hopefully not in disgrace). He and Potter had completed the finishing touches on everything just two days prior, and Draco, in spite of his nervousness, couldn’t wait to show off their hard work.

Making his way into the kitchen, Draco resisted dipping a finger into a bowl of batter like a child, and came up behind Potter, who was stirring something in a large pot. For a moment, Draco considered kissing the back of Potter’s exposed neck, but he didn’t want to startle him. “Hullo, Potter.” he said instead.

“Hullo, _Draco,_ ” he answered pointedly. Draco blushed sheepishly.

“Sorry, Harry.” It was going to take some time to get used to that.

“That’s better. Will you hand me those bay leaves?” Harry said anxiously. “And check the potatoes?” Draco did both.

“What are we having?”

“Roast chicken, jacket potatoes, mini cottage pies, and leeks,” Harry rattled off. “Oh, and lemon drizzle for dessert.”

Draco raised a brow. “No treacle?”

“I thought that went without saying.” Harry laughed. “You know, I feel badly for not preparing something traditionally Irish, but I don’t know any recipes. I’ll have to ask Seamus to send me some.”

“Sometimes I forget we’re even in Ireland at all. This place seems like the end of the world.”

“Which is exactly why I bought it. Honestly, when the sales agent said ‘isolated island in the North Sea,’ I didn’t even bother to ask first if it was part of Scotland, England, or Ireland. I just heard ‘isolated’ and jumped at the chance. Still, it would be nice to pay tribute.” Harry wiped his brow and stopped stirring. “Alright, almost done.”

“I’ll go set the table then. I’m sure you’d like to be in the parlour to greet your guests.” Draco hesitated. “And you’re _sure_ —”

“Yes.” Harry rolled his eyes. “You’ve asked me five times a day. It’s alright that you invited them.”

Draco still was unsure about having mixed company at dinner. It was one thing for Harry to ask them to accept Draco as his friend; springing a table full of Slytherins on them was quite another.

Privately, Draco wondered if Harry had suggested he include Pansy and Blaise not only to have familiar faces around, but to see if Draco was willing to renounce his old ways in front of his own friends, not just Harry’s. If so, it was a cunning plan, but also had the potential to backfire, especially if Pansy was her usual provocative self.

 _Provocative,_ Draco whispered as he levitated the dishes and silverware into their proper places. Something about setting a table was so meditative. Knife, fork, napkin. A regimented etiquette. House-elves had always handled this part of the meal at the Manor, but Draco was still required to know what was proper.

The _woosh_ of the Floo brought his thoughts back to the present. From the parlour, he could hear two voices speaking in hushed tones.

“Do you think they’re _both_ cooking?”

“I’m not sure. Be nice even if it’s not good, though.”

“Honestly, Hermione. I was raised with manners.”

Draco froze and moved into the corner of the dining room. Suddenly this all seemed like an exercise in futility. How could he face them after all these years?

It was too late to change his mind now. Even if he wanted to flee, they were blocking his only exit.

Another _woosh,_ and a very familiar voice echoed through the house.

“We aren’t late, are we?” Pansy’s lazy drawl brought a smile to Draco’s face. If he knew her, she’d arrived with Blaise in tow. Oh, to be a fly on the wall in that room. The ultimate Gryffindor vs. Slytherin showdown.

No, that wasn’t the way to approach this. This was Harry’s retreat, and Draco was meant to be extending an olive branch. He wouldn’t allow anything to ruin this dinner.

Bracing himself, Draco made his way into the parlour and found Pansy already seated in one of the high-backed chairs, one ankle lightly crossed over the other. Her skirt was scandalously short, and Weasley was trying not to look directly at her. Blaise was slouched against the wall beside the fireplace, brutally handsome in a three-piece suit. Draco felt woefully underdressed in his crisply pressed shirt with no jacket, until he remembered that Harry was only wearing a nice jumper. Granger and Weasley were similarly well-groomed but casual.

“Let me reassure you,” Draco said to Weasley, “that I am only helping set the table. Harry wanted everything to be edible.”

His self-deprecating humour helped cut the tension, although only Pansy’s laugh didn’t sound a bit forced. Before anyone else could try their hand at breaking the ice, the Floo roared to life once more, revealing Luna Lovegood and a wizard with a tawny complexion that Draco didn’t recognise.

“Oh, how nice, everyone is here already,” Lovegood remarked. She was wearing a blindingly yellow sundress and knee-high socks printed with what appeared to be Doxies. “This is Rolf.” Her companion waved; he was wearing an old-fashioned waistcoat but seemed to have escaped Lovegood’s unique ideas about accessorising.

A stilted hush descended over the room, and six pairs of eyes now focused on Draco. He cleared his throat. “Harry is almost done with the food. I’m sure we can make our way to the dining room.”

“Are you co-hosting then, Draco? That’s lovely,” Lovegood said.

“Er, I wouldn’t say that, exactly.” It wouldn’t do for them to get the wrong idea just yet; even he and Harry’s friendship was depending on the progress that Draco made tonight. “It’s Harry’s house, after all. I just helped him fix it up.”

“From what Harry told us, you’re the only reason this house is functioning,” Hermione offered, though she sounded a bit puzzled.

Draco blushed. “He insisted. At first it was irritating, because I like to work alone, but he certainly proved himself useful in the end.”

“He still thinks I’m underfoot, though.” Draco turned to see Harry in the doorway. “Thank you all for coming. The pies have about ten minutes left on the bake, if you want to start with drinks?”

Harry’s presence brightened up the room considerably, and after hugs were exchanged (between the Gryffindors and Gryffindor-adjacent, at least,) they all followed him into the dining room to sit down.

“Mum will be chuffed to hear you’re good with household spells now, mate,” Weasley said to Harry after he’d served them all drinks.

“Once I learned the difference between velvet and velveteen.” Harry laughed. “There’s so much more to a house than just cleaning, it turns out. I’ll need to be on my toes if I don’t want this place to fall down around my ears. Or just keep Draco around,” he added, glancing at his friend’s faces. Draco supposed he was looking for a reaction.

Lovegood seemed oblivious to the implication, pointing out a large bubble in one of her ice cubes to Rolf (whose last name Draco was not yet privy to). Pansy was smirking, the wretch, and it seemed contagious as Blaise joined in. Weasley’s ears went red, and Granger looked thoughtful. No one spoke.

Draco supposed it was his turn now. “I think what Harry means is… er…” _This is even harder than I expected._

“Oh, Draco, if Harry is Harry can I be Luna?” Lovegood interrupted, her wide eyes beseeching. Draco opened and closed his mouth several times before nodding. She beamed. “Then it wouldn’t be fair to leave the others out, would it?” Her smile was impish, and Draco was reminded that Lo—blast it, _Luna_ —was a Ravenclaw, and likely cleverer than she let on.

“That seems fair,” Draco acquiesced, albeit with hesitation. “After all, Harry and I are friends, now, and you are all his friends, so…”

“Are you not all friends already?” Rolf asked. Blaise tried and failed to hide his snort in his Firewhiskey.

“Draco and I have a bit of a history,” Harry said, pulling at his collar. The Firewhiskey nearly went up Blaise’s nose.

“That’s the understatement of the century,” Weasley muttered.

The whole table watched Draco expectantly, and he felt like an insect squirming under a magnifying glass. Still, he took a deep, steadying breath. He could do this.

“I know you’re likely wondering how Harry and I can even stand to be in the same room together, much less become friends. It didn’t happen overnight. He took a chance on hiring me, and I’m grateful, because spending time together here on Inishtrahull has truly illuminated some things for me. I regret that we were never able to be friendly before, but I also am well aware that was due to my own failings, not his. We’ve come to an understanding, and I’ve let him know how badly I feel about the treatment I subjected him to in school.”

Whoever said confession was good for the soul? Was this what therapy was like? How did Pansy stand it? And why wasn’t _she_ being subjected to this torture? She’d been heinous to Granger especially. _This isn’t about her, this is about me,_ Draco reminded himself. And both Pansy and Blaise worked in London, and were at the Ministry occasionally; for all he knew they’d both sorted themselves out long ago and never mentioned it to him, knowing Draco was pulling his best impression of an ostrich.

He addressed the next part to Luna, Granger and Weasley directly.

“I can’t… I can’t excuse my actions. I know I brought a great deal of pain into people’s lives for no other reason than to make myself feel more powerful. I may have been raised a certain way, but there comes a time when one must make their own choices, and I chose the wrong path for too long.” With every word, Draco somehow felt a bit lighter, as if they had been waiting to escape him. After all, he knew these things deep down. He just hadn’t wanted to face them.

He could have prepared a flowery speech, but had a feeling neither Granger or Weasley would appreciate begging, and Luna was too kind to deny him in any case. “I can only ask you allow me to continue trying to make the right choices,” he concluded, and braced himself for the worst.

The silence that returned to the table worried him momentarily. Finally, Granger spoke up. “We know that, Draco,” she said, a small smile on her face. “But it’s nice to hear it from you personally.”

“You know…” No hexes, no curses, no demands? “But how?”

“Harry couldn’t be friends with a bully, not like you used to be,” Weasley said bluntly. “But he’s been spending a lot of time with you. He says you’re different, so…” He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean it’s all water under the bridge, but it’s enough to give you a chance.”

“We trust Harry,” Hermione added.” But thank you all the same, Draco. It can’t be easy to open up like that. It means a lot.”

Numbly, Draco nodded and sat back in his chair. Under the table, Pansy patted his thigh gently. “I’m proud of you,” she whispered.

“I think you’ll find fewer Wrackspurts around you now, Draco,” Luna added. “Also, if we’re all friends now, we can all have our own names!”

_Merlin help me, that means ‘Ron’ and ‘Hermione’._

Harry stood up. “Those pies must be done. Draco, could you help me?”

In the kitchen, Harry removed the pies from the oven and set them on a serving tray. Before Draco could ask what he needed help with, he found himself enveloped in a hug.

“That must have been really difficult,” Harry said, pulling back to look him in the eye. “I’m really proud of you.”

“It was both harder and easier than I thought,” Draco said. “But it’s… it’s good. It needed to be said. Even if you and I don’t make a go of it, that was the right thing to do.”

“It’s not over you know,” Harry cautioned. “Ron and Hermione trust actions more than words. You made a good start, though.” He pointed to the table. “Could you grab those leeks? Use a potholder.”

“Of course.” Draco leaned over to pick up one of the colourful potholders, and found himself quite close in Harry’s personal space. “Er, sorry, if I could just…?”

Harry stared at Draco’s mouth, and licked his own lips.

“Harry?”

The two men pulled apart as quickly as if they’d been burned, and turned to see Granger standing in the doorway. “With eight people, I thought you might need more help?” She looked back and forth between him and Draco with narrowed eyes.

“Er, I’ve got it!” Harry waved his wand and both the leeks and pies began levitating. “We’ll be right out!”

She left, and Draco caught Harry before he could follow. “We have to carry things, or else why did I come along in the first place?”

“Oh, right.”

They returned to the dining room and set the appetisers out, although Granger gave them a suspicious look when she noticed the dishes were no longer levitating.

“I see Hermione came back empty-handed,” Weasley laughed. “I knew you’d chase her out. Cooking isn't like potions I told her but she never believes me.”

“There’s something Granger can’t do? That must drive her mad.” Draco made sure his voice and expression indicated he was only teasing, and he was rewarded with a grin.

“I’ll figure it out eventually,” Granger insisted. “Still, Harry cooks well enough for all of us. I’m so pleased you took our advice about trying new things.”

“Worked out great for me!” Weasley scooped up a large helping of leeks.

The mini cottage pies were a hit, and Draco watched Harry accept the compliments, beaming the whole time. _He’s so beautiful when he’s happy._

The starters were quickly devoured, and the conversation turned to lighter topics after that. Luna and Rolf described a wildlife sanctuary where they hoped to find evidence of various as-yet undiscovered creatures, and revealed that Blaise had actually donated the land. He acknowledged that with a shrug of his stylish shoulder.

“My third step-father left me that land. I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

Pansy gave him a friendly jab with her elbow. “You do-gooder.”

Blaise raised a brow. “Says the girl who does pro bono filing work for the reparations group at Gringotts.”

Draco looked at his friends in shock; one glance around the table told him this wasn’t news to either Weasley or Granger, who both worked at the Ministry. Had the whole world moved on without him?

“Draco?” Harry was speaking again. “Help me with the next course?”

The chicken smelled absolutely amazing as it came out, and Harry drizzled it with a light sauce and surrounded it with jacket potatoes.

“I didn’t know that about Pansy,” he said. “Did you?”

“I had no idea. She offered to find me work as a bookkeeper, but we don’t really discuss things that remind us of the war, so she hadn’t mentioned the other stuff.”

“Do you think you’ll talk more now?”

Part of Draco wanted to keep at least one friendship apart from that. Maybe Pansy had wanted to talk about their tangled and sometimes violent past, however, and felt she couldn’t broach the subject. Then again, she did tell him about going to therapy. “Perhaps I will. I’ll see if that’s something she needs, at least.” A terrible thought occurred to him. “I wasn’t there, but I know what she said about you the night of… you know… Is that… is that a problem for you?”

Harry idly poked holes in the potatoes to release steam. “I wouldn’t have told you to invite her if I was still angry. I’m trying to deal with that. I know she was just scared. It’s not a nice thing to remember, though.”

Draco gently lay a hand over Harry’s and stopped him from turning the potatoes into mashed ones.

“I should have asked you before. I’m sorry. It hurts me now, to think of you in pain.”

Harry allowed Draco to pull him close, and tilted his head up, eyes on Draco’s mouth the whole time. Draco closed his own and leaned in for a kiss—

—but met empty air.

When Draco opened his eyes. Harry was looking over his shoulder. “Speak of the devil,” he said. Draco whirled around.

Pansy was leaning against the door frame, the smuggest smile Draco had ever seen (and that was saying something) stretched across her face. “I wanted to ask if there was any more wine. Are you boys busy?”

“No!” Draco said, turning red. “We’re just coming!”

“Are you,” she purred.

“Wine is on the sideboard,” Harry pointed out.

“Hmm. So it is.” She retreated into the dining room.

The chicken and potatoes were a hit with the gathered guests just as the starters had been. As he carved the large bird—it was closer to a turkey, and Draco wondered if it had been hit with an _Engorgio_ sometime in its life—Harry asked Weasley how his family was doing.

“Well, you saw Mum and Dad pretty recently, and nothing is new with them. Bill sent us a postcard from Peru, and it looks brilliant there. Oh! And a new dragon hatched out in Romania!”

“Wicked! I’ll have to write Charlie and ask for a picture. Teddy would love to have it for show and tell. He couldn’t stop talking about dragons at his last kiddie Quidditch game.”

“That’s because Ron told him about how you out-flew the Horntail for the sixth time. Oh, Draco? Would you pass the potatoes?”

Draco froze, processing the fact that Granger had called him by his first name. _She obviously took Luna’s advice._ It was somehow harder than using Lovegood’s first name, but Draco managed. “Of course, Hermione.”

He passed the tray to his left, then turned to his right, where Luna was telling a bemused Pansy about her plans for an expedition over the holidays, to find the Crumple-Horned Snorkack.  
“And what about you, Draco?” Luna asked. “Do you have plans for the winter hols?”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead, actually. I suppose I should plan on spending at least a week with my mother.” He couldn’t avoid her forever, nor did he really want to. Draco had come to terms with his father’s prison sentence, even as he’d resisted dealing with other things, but he loved his mother despite her meddling.

“I’m sure that will be lovely,” Hermione said, tactfully not addressing any of their own issues with Narcissa Malfoy.

“Oh, not at all,” Pansy said mirthfully. “She’ll likely have several candidates for him.”

“Candidates?”

“She’s trying to marry me off,” Draco admitted. “She’s very insistent I settle down.”

A guffaw sounded from the end of the table, and Draco turned his glare in that direction. “You think it’s funny, _Ron,_ but just wait until it’s your mother badgering you for grandchildren.” Ron blanched.

“I quite like the idea of settling down,” Rolf said. “I mean, we all seem to have found someone, yes?”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the table, and Harry stood up in a rush.

“I’ll get the desserts. If someone could help with the tea—”

“Oh, just take Draco, we already know you mean him. Goodness, Potter, you’d think you were hosting this dinner together.” Draco glared at Pansy, hoping to convey just how much he hated her and how swiftly he would have his revenge, but she simply took another sip of her wine and smirked.

“Do you have any—” Draco heard Rolf begin to ask, but he was already following Harry to the kitchen.

A lovely little lemon drizzle and a large number of small treacle tarts were waiting under Stasis Charms. Harry started gathering them on a tray, licking stray drops of drizzle from his fingers like a little boy. Draco thought it was adorable.

“That was awkward,” Harry laughed nervously. “I guess, with everyone else being couples, Rolf got the wrong impression.”

Draco remembered that Rolf and Luna were not actually a couple, but two-thirds of one, and Blaise and Pansy were only a couple when it suited them. He didn’t mention any of this, however.

“Is that so terrible?” he asked Harry. “I know we meant to take it slowly, see how things go, but I also know how I feel about you.”

“Yeah? How is that?” Harry set the dessert tray down and moved towards Draco, who cautiously pulled him close.The evening wasn’t going as badly as he had feared, and he was feeling emboldened.

“You drive me crazy, Harry. You know that, too.” There was a fleck off lemon drizzle on Harry’s bottom lip; Draco leaned down, intent on licking it off.

“Coffee!”

Draco and Harry sprang apart. Standing in the kitchen doorway with a placid expression was Rolf.

“I wondered if we could have coffee with dessert? If it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble,” Harry said faintly.

The moment was broken. Harry put the kettle on while Draco stood aside and waited, fretting all the while. What was he thinking, trying to start something in the kitchen while everyone waited for dessert? And was he certain Harry wanted to move forward now, so soon after they cleared the air? Perhaps it was better if he waited for Harry to make the first move. But it seemed as if he’d welcomed the incipient kiss… _Drizzle, drizzle. No, I don’t think I like that word._

“Draco?” Harry was holding out a pot of coffee. “Can you gather some cups?”

As they manoeuvred the trays out to the dining room, Harry leaned over and whispered in Draco’s ear. “They’ll be gone soon enough.”

 _What? What did he mean by that?!_ But Harry was already setting the sweets down in the middle of the table, so Draco would have to keep wondering.

Pansy made a slight noise of distress as Blaise eagerly reached for the coffee. “Great idea, Scamander,” he said, pouring a large portion into his cup, a gleam in his eye. It took Draco a moment to figure out that his friend was referring to Rolf. He was a Scamander? That made sense; no wonder he and Luna had hit it off. He seemed like an alright sort, Draco supposed.

“There’s lemon drizzle and mini treacle tarts,” Harry said, pointing out the desserts. The mound of tarts dwarfed the cake, and Draco couldn’t help but smile.

“Oh, these look fantastic,” Ron gushed, two tarts already in hand. The cake was cut and passed around the table, and soon everyone was praising Harry, even Pansy, who tried to avoid sweets.

“I’d love your recipe, Harry,” said Luna, who seemed to cut her cake in a spiral, rather than straight across.

Harry beamed. “I’d be happy to share it. I’m so glad you’ve all enjoyed yourselves,” he added. “I really appreciate you all coming out tonight.”

 _Look at that,_ Draco thought. _Turns out Harry is a lovely host._

Rolf finished off a tart. “Did you enjoy your kiss? So sorry to have interrupted.”

It was as if someone had cast _Silencio_ on the entire room. For a moment, the only sound was Ron choking on his tart, and then Pansy desperately trying to swallow her laughter. Draco went white, then pink, while Harry stared at his hands.

Draco chanced a look around: Luna seemed pleased, Rolf was oblivious, Ron was resigned, Pansy was about to burst, and Hermione’s face said _I knew it._ Draco himself was frozen with indecision. Should he deny? Laugh it off? Confess his feelings? Let Harry answer for him?

There was a clatter of a coffee cup being set down. “I think we all saw that one coming! Really, we aren’t stupid. Although I wasn’t aware you played for that team, Potter. Draco’s about as obvious as a Hippogriff in a china shop, though. Should have heard him in fourth year especially.” Draco tried shaking his head frantically at Blaise to shut him up, but it was no use. The caffeine had kicked in. “Well, tell us, Potter. Is Draco still an awful kisser? Because Pansy has some stories to tell. In fact, I remember—”

“Alright!” Pansy slapped a hand over Blaise’s mouth. “That’s our cue. Thank you for the lovely evening, Potter. We can find our way to the Floo.” She bodily dragged Blaise out of his seat and towards the parlour.

Stunned, the remaining guests sat speechless. “It’s been a long evening,” Hermione delicately said at last. “Perhaps Harry would like to clean up.”

With obvious relief, Harry escorted them all to the parlour to gather their cloaks. Luna and Rolf left first, promising to come back another time and check the garden for Nargles. While Harry was occupied with Ron near the fireplace—discussing the Chudley Cannons, from the sound of it—Hermione cornered Draco on the other side of the room and fixed him with a stare.

“I think it’s good for Harry to have this place” she stated. “I also think becoming close with you, of all people, has helped him come out of his shell. I suppose if we’re all friends now, or going to try being friends, I can tell you this.” Draco nodded helplessly, fearful of interrupting her, and she continued.

“For a while, I was worried because Harry seemed to be drifting. He ran full speed into things after the war, and then crashed hard. He had trouble accepting that he was allowed to simply live for himself. He was depressed, and I think he felt like his dissatisfaction in life was a burden on us, somehow. You were a good distraction from that.”

“Distraction?” Draco replied, hurt.

“Not now,” she admitted. “Honestly, the way he cares for you is quite evident.” She didn’t mention Rolf’s comment. “However,” she added, her voice becoming dangerous, I don’t have to tell you what will happen if you hurt him. You have a chance to prove yourself now. Don’t muck it up.”

Draco gulped. “I don’t plan on it.” Hermione, seemingly satisfied for now, nodded and collected her boyfriend. They both embraced Harry tightly before leaving.

Draco could hardly believe the whole ordeal was over. He looked across the now quiet parlour to find Harry watching him carefully.

“Hermione is terrifying,” Draco stated.

Harry relaxed. “No kidding. Did she threaten you?”

“Don’t sound so pleased. I don’t plan on making her carry out her threats.” Draco gestured towards the dining room. “Come on, I’ll help you clear everything.”

“Oh! You’re staying?” Harry shifted from one foot to the other. “You, er, don’t have to.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

The drizzle was gone, but Harry had prepared enough mini treacle tarts to feed an army. “They left without finishing these,” Draco pointed out.

Harry stuffed one in this mouth. “More for me.”

Draco watched him fondly. “You do like sweet things, don’t you?”

“I do,” Harry said in a low voice. Draco shivered, as the tension built between them like a current, and in an instant they were on the same side of the table, grasping at one another like starving men.

“Fuck, you looked so good tonight,” Harry gasped, as their mouths _finally_ met. “I wanted to take this slow, but I already have you here, and it’s impossible.”

“You have me,” Draco assured him. “You can have me anywhere you like.”

“I’d say the table, but I like this dishware.”

Draco’s eyes glazed over as he imagined shoving everything off the table and bending Harry over it. The kitchen was similarly out, and there was no suitable furniture in the parlour. “Bedroom?”

Harry nodded decisively. “Bedroom. Now.”

They continued groping and kissing as they haltingly made their way up the stairs. Draco was grateful Harry had chosen the very first bedroom as his own.

Between kisses, Draco tried to speak. “You know this… might not be as… good as before.”

“What do you mean?” Harry was pulling at his shirt, and Draco let him. _Who cares about buttons?_

“I mean… no, Harry, wait.” With a great effort, Draco placed his hands over Harry’s, stilling them. “We were under a spell before. It was our own desire, but amplified, and it was driving us towards completion. This is real.”

“Right.” Doubt crept into Harry’s eyes, and Draco backed away gently.

“We don’t have to do this, you know. What happened to us before is still quite a lot to deal with.”

“No.” Harry shook his head stubbornly. “I want you, and I want to stop making excuses to myself. I want to know what it’s like with you when it _is_ real, and when we aren’t trying to use sex to distract ourselves.”

Harry’s zeal and determination were some of the most compelling parts of his personality, and Draco found he couldn’t resist. “I want to know, too,” he said, and sat on the bed to pull off his shoes. Suddenly he was pushed backward, and Harry climbed on top of him.

“Why wouldn’t it be as good?” Harry questioned as he worked at Draco’s trousers, palming him through his pants.

“We had a— _oh, right there_ —one-track mind under the spell, no distractions, no doubts. Also the— _ah!_ —simultaneous orgasms. I wouldn’t bet on that happening again. Please Harry, touch me!”

Harry grinned, and divested Draco of the rest of his clothing with a wave. “Like this?” he asked innocently, running one finger lightly up Draco’s cock.

“You’re an insufferable tease,” Draco moaned.

“Can’t have that.” Harry motioned for him to move further up the bed, and arranged Draco to his satisfaction. Then without preamble. he sucked Draco down to the base.

The pleasure was instantaneous, and Draco cried out helplessly. Holy _fuck,_ Harry was an excellent cocksucker. He wasn’t particularly artful about it, but he was extremely enthusiastic.

With great effort, Draco propped himself up on his elbows to watch. Unlike when he’d given Harry the bittersweet blow-job upstairs, he wanted to watch this moment. Harry had flung his glasses somewhere, and his beautiful green eyes were open, watching Draco without shame.

It was obvious that Harry enjoyed pleasuring him in this way, so Draco allowed himself to relax and enjoy it. Warmth suffused his limbs, and he found himself edging closer and closer. Once Harry cupped his balls and began to fondle them, Draco had to stop panting long enough to ask, “Do you want me to come like this? Because it won't take much more.”

Harry pulled off, his lips red and swollen. “If you want, sure. But I’d like to maybe try something else?” Draco nodded eagerly, and Harry sat up to remove his own clothing.

Once naked, Harry seemed to hesitate. He crawled slowly up Draco’s body, and laid a soft kiss on his lips. “Can I…?” he asked, pressing himself down so that Draco’s cock slipped along his arse.

“You want to ride me?” Draco asked, scarcely believing his luck. Harry nodded shyly. “I can’t reach my wand, so you’ll have to do the spell,” Draco told him. He probably could reach his wand if he stretched, but he enjoyed watching Harry’s wandless magic.

Sure enough, it was astoundingly hot seeing Harry wave his hand and fill it with lube. As he reached back to finger himself, he seemed to grow less bashful, and before long he was arching his back and writhing over Draco. Harry’s cock rubbed over his, creating delicious friction, and Draco reached down and gripped himself tightly in an effort to stave off his orgasm.

At last, Harry kneeled back and lined himself up, as Draco held his cock steady. “Are you sure?” he whispered one last time. Harry winked, and began to sink down.

It was just as mind-blowing as when Harry had fucked him, but in a different way, and even better because this was _real._ Harry didn’t hold back, immediately finding a rhythm, raising and lowering himself over Draco until he was riding at a fast pace. Draco could do nothing but be swept along, losing himself in Harry’s tight heat.

Harry’s hands stayed busy as well, running down Draco’s sides and pinching his nipples, clutching at his hips and finding a good grip. Draco tried to touch Harry as well, but he was batted away, and Harry leaned over to lightly take hold of his wrists.

“This ok?” he asked.

“Fuck yes,” Draco gasped, feeling entirely possessed. “Do you like to be in charge?”

“Mostly I just want to be able to touch you everywhere,” Harry panted. He let go of Draco’s wrists, and ran his fingers through Draco’s hair, then thumbed at his lips. Draco sucked the thumb into his mouth, and Harry’s eyes glazed over.

Draco remembered how Harry had enjoyed being praised. “You’re gorgeous,” he whispered. “So beautiful, riding me like that. Merlin, what a view. I could stay like this forever.”

Harry flushed, and sped up, chasing completion. “Definitely not going to last forever.”

“Me neither, honestly. But I can dream.” Actually, Draco was very close, having been brought to the edge by Harry’s mouth earlier. “Let me touch you,” he begged, and Harry managed to nod. Draco promptly grabbed Harry by the hips and bounced him even harder, drawing a wail out of Harry, who clenched down. That was it for Draco; he yelled what might have been Harry’s name and came inside him forcefully.

Feeling drained, Draco stilled beneath Harry, who ground down on his softening prick and whined. He was obviously very close. “Come here,” Draco said once he caught his breath, and pulled Harry towards his face. “Come on me, just like this. Make me yours.”

Shaking, Harry took hold of himself and began stroking furiously. Draco reached up and thumbed his hole, feeling the mess there, and that was all it took. Harry came in several strong pulses, striping Draco’s neck and chin.

Weakly, Harry rolled off of Draco and splayed out on the bed, panting harshly. It was some time before either of them could manage to speak.

“I’m… I’m really glad we didn’t wait,” Harry finally said.

Draco released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. A small part of him was still filled with doubts, but as long as Harry didn’t regret this, he was hopeful. “Me too,” he said, rolling onto his side to look at Harry. “That was amazing. _You’re_ amazing.” He petted Harry’s hair, which was a total wreck. “I only hope I continue to deserve the chance you’ve given me.”

“Shhh,” Hary shushed him. “No more heavy talk. We’ll have enough of that later. Right now I just want to sleep.”

“Wore yourself out, did you?” Draco laughed. He should have known that Harry would approach sex the same he did everything else—full speed ahead.

“I want to fuck you in every room of this house,” Harry said with a yawn. “Except the rose room,” he clarified. “Even if the spells are gone.”

“Of course not.” Draco reached over and tucked Harry into the crook of his arm. “Perhaps under the real roses in the garden someday.”

Harry curled into him with another adorable yawn. “Yeah. Someday.”

As Harry’s breathing even out and he drifted off, Draco stayed awake, just watching him. Never in a million years could he have guessed that answering that advert could have brought him here.

_I never dreamed I could be this content._

This didn't mean everything would be immediately perfect, but they could work on their relationship the same way they worked on the house: together. Draco promised himself that he would continue to earn Harry’s trust… and perhaps even his love. _Love. L-o-v-e. That’s a beautiful word._

Slowly, Draco let sleep take him over as well, lulled to sleep by the sea breeze blowing in the window, bringing with it the scent of roses.

**END**


End file.
